On Getting a Wedgie

I’ve never received a wedgie before today, and although this may not be the definitive ‘wedgie’, I pray it’s as close to one as I’ll ever come.

A door gave me the wedgie. Due to this intimate experience, I’ve named this door: ‘Bob’. Bob was improperly constructed; his hinge was in the wrong spot. Hinges ought to sit on the edge, so as to not throw Bob’s balance, oui? If a hinge were meant to sit in Bob’s middle, we would’ve called the hinge a “minge”, derived from the Latin word MIDDLE, instead of the Latin word IHAVENOIDEAWHATI’MTALKINGABOUT.

As I rushed to open Bob, I miscalculated his weight and the positioning of his minge. As I pulled Bob toward me, I began to walk through the small gap I’d made, only to realize that Bob was much too heavy for the effort I’d originally exerted. My arm was at an awkward angle behind me, because it was busy opening Bob, at which point Bob’s minge took a hissy fit and decided to take a Kit Kat break.

And so it came to pass that I was immediately wedged in between Bob and his frame, Martha, while his minge stuffed it’s fat-without-equilibrium ass with more chocolate.

I started to laugh because I knew how ridiculous I looked to everyone within 12 km of me. Laughed hard enough to lose what little strength I had to push through the rest of Bob. I stood wedged for about eight seconds until a nice boy came over and unwedged me. It took me another eight minutes to stop laughing and thank him.

He asked me if I’d been drinking.

Well, not really.

But he should have.

The boy, not Bob.