Friday, July 27, 2007

They Call Me Mr. Stinkypants


THEY CALL ME MR. STINKYPANTS
By Matthew Sanborn Smith

Sally always made too much for supper and they were never in the mood for leftovers. Food piled up in the fridge and spilled out onto the floor. One morning Bob moaned about his fraying cuffs.

“If we didn’t spend so much money on food we don’t eat, I could afford some new suits!” That’s when inspiration dropped from the ceiling and squatted on his head.

Bob strutted into work that day in a suit made of steak, mashed potatoes and broccoli. He seemed as pleased with his ingenuity as with all the attention he received. It was a hit! And the dogs loved him! And birds! And insects! He felt like Snow White, walking home from work as all of God’s creatures tore his clothes down to their constituent atoms.

He arrived home naked. Sally hosed him off and found herself overcome by his pasty white body, all glistening in the late afternoon sunlight. They humped like dogs, right there in the front yard.

“I should have thought of this years ago!” Bob thought, as he drove it home.

At work the next day, Bob sported a stylish three piece made from jumbo ravioli. Mr. Hamara approached Bob’s desk.

“Bob, I’m afraid you’ll have to stop wearing your food around the office.”

“Why do you say that, Mr. Hamara?”

“To be frank, Bob, you smell.”

“Sir, climate control keeps the office at a crisp forty-two degrees. That’s nearly as good as my refrigerator.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that you stink of rancid food, Bob. The problem is you smell quite tasty.”

“Well, Sally is a great cook, sir.”

“Too great, I’d say. It’s an incredible distraction for everyone in the building. Since you pulled your little stunt yesterday, production has been down .004 percent. We just can’t have that.”

“How ‘bout I work extra to make up the difference?”

“The more you work, the more production will drop! You’re just not doing the math here, Bob, which is a shame since you were hired on as Head Math Guy. The smell is even affecting you. Lose the food suits, Bob.”

“I can’t! I won’t!” Bob ran screaming from the office like a madman. He had his hands waving in the air above his head and everything.

Out on the street, Bob wandered aimlessly. Everything had been going so well. Why did that big stupid-head, Mr. Hamara, have to spoil it all? Where else could he go? Who else needed a Head Math Guy? No one, that’s who else! He’d have to suck it up and go back there, in a suit made of frayed and neutral-smelling fabric. He headed home to change. On the way a man stopped him on the street and asked:

“Mind if I take a bite of your pants, mister.”

“Yes I mind!” Bob answered. “What will God’s creatures eat?”

“What would you say to President Lincoln?” the man asked, brandishing a crisp five. Bob looked around, a crowd of people had gathered, their wallets and purses at the ready, waiting on his decision.

“I’d say, ‘To hell with God’s creatures, Mr. Lincoln!’”

A roar went up and his hands and mouth were stuffed with money as people of all walks of life ate Bob naked. Wait that doesn’t sound right. As people of all walks of life ate Bob’s suit until he was naked. Yes, he had done ravioli underwear as well. He hobbled home to Sally’s waiting hose. Even with money taken out for the shots he’d need (He had more than a few bite marks on him) he had more cash than he’d get at his old job in two days.

“Honey,” he said, as they lay naked and wet in the front yard. “I’ve decided to go into the catering business.”