Dear Drunken Idiots and Mr. Poopy Pants,
I wanted to take a moment and reach out. If it weren’t for the three of you, our Sunday a few Sundays ago would have begun and ended with nothing more than a pleasant meal in a new neighbourhood and a quiet evening at home. Though we weren’t formally introduced, you were directly responsible for making it a Sunday that M and I will remember for years to come. We’ll share details of the day over cocktails with our friends, and I’ll even write about you in my blog.
You see, in an effort to shake up our routine of going to restaurants and bars with big-screen TVs, within a two-block radius from home, M and I decided to go to Kensington Market for brunch.
I used love going to the Market in high school. It always reminded me of the lower east side in Manhattan – arty, grimy, aggressively exotic – the best place to buy vintage this and second-hand that. In recent years, I’ve only passed through the Market, on my way to a specific store to buy a specific something, but it’s been awhile since I’ve spent any dedicated time there. So it seemed like an ideal destination for a Sunday shake-up.
M and I walked around a bit and quickly found a restaurant with a decent patio and menu. There were a few other people already seated – a couple of couples, two girlfriends and the two of you, Drunken Idiots. To be honest, I didn’t really notice you right away because M and I were busy balancing our wobbly table and deciding what to eat. You know how that is.
It was only after M and I ordered our shockingly cheap meals that I heard loud voices behind me. Your voices, actually, heatedly rising, with unmistakable drunken slurs. Fabulous! Seemed like the two of you were having a disagreement about something, so one of you moved to another table in an intoxicated huff. Completely understandable. You need a time out? You step away, that’s what I always say. Within five minutes, you changed tables again. Perfectly reasonable. Bearing in mind this patio only had six or so tables, you were then practically sitting next to me. Delightful!
Because my back was to you, M was giving me a discreet play by play of your shenanigans. I kept my eyes on his darting eyes as he tracked your movements, expecting at any moment for you Idiots (do you mind if I just call you Idiots?) to escalate into a full-on drunken assault. One can only hope! I especially liked the moment when you lit up a joint and pulled out a mickey of vodka. Booyah! Did you happen to feel the tension and anxiety rise amongst all the other customers? That was all you, Drunken Idiots, all you.
Several hours later, M and I were at home relaxing from our brunch-capade, when someone knocked on our door. It was our neighbor.
“You might want to check your car,” he said to M (he and M park next to each other in our condo garage).
“Why?” M asked, concerned.
“Well… I just saw a guy shitting in the spot next to yours, and wiping himself with my motorcycle cover.”
Not something you expect to hear on a Sunday evening, waiting for the pizza delivery.
Ah, Mr. Poopy Pants, will wonders never cease? Though you could have gone to Tim Horton’s across the street or any number of other establishments, mere moments away, you had the wherewithal to elude our condo security, find your way down to the garage, scope out a spot, pull down your pants and poo! Bravo, I say, Bra-freaking-vo!
And when security tracked you on their cameras and called Police, and you claimed you were a resident in the condo… pooing in the garage? Good effort is all I can say. Clearly, not everyone can appreciate your kind of chutzpah and ingenuity. Your family must be extremely proud.
And that was our Sunday, smack dab between two Drunken Idiots and Mr. Poopy Pants. What do they say about being in the right place at the right time?
Thanks again to all of you for nudging M and me out of our comfort zones, and making an otherwise routine Sunday, something a bit more special.