My Greatest Accomplishment

I think I’m at that point in my life where I’ve begun to measure my accomplishments.  I stack them up like Lincoln Log castles.  As if one of them will reach so high that the weather will be different up there.  I try not to do that on a regular basis.  In the grand scheme of things…when you hold me up to gentleman like Trump and Gates and Sir Jobs, I don’t have a ton of high-flying log cabins.  I can’t really complain.  I’m comfortable, I’m in good health, I have someone who loves me, and my kids haven’t gone on a shoot rampage or injected themselves with designer drugs.

However, the other day I realized my crowning achievement.  In all my years, I’m happy to report that I have never walked in on my parents getting it on.

You laugh.  But I’m serious!!

Right now you’re thinking “that’s complete and utter mumbo-jumbo.”  But here’s the thing.  I have this very strong feeling that my life would’ve been permanently altered by an experience such as that.  There ain’t enough Ajax to wash that sort of dirt away, brother.  No sir, that is one sweaty mess of an image that would burn the back of my eye balls like a nasty light saber.

Here’s the scary part.  What if I DID walk in on my parents doing the hokey-pokey?  What if I stumbled upon their horizontal mambo and it was so traumatizing that I blocked it from my memory?  That’s the sort of thing that could fry one’s frontal lobe in a puff of ozone-blue smoke.

If that’s what happened, I don’t want to know.  DO YOU HEAR ME?  I don’t need the truth.  This is one bloke who is happy to not go through the regression therapy.

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