20th Century Boy(s)

"It's diarrhea poop, Dad." Wy yelled from the fetid stall at the Tushka truck stop and casino.

"Don't touch anything." I said.

"I'm touching my penis." Wy answered.

"Don't touch anything else, son, this bathroom is filthy." I said.

"Can I go out into the mingo store?" Ethan asked.

"No." I said, "I want you in here with me."

"Dad." Wy yelled.

"Yes." I said as a trucker walked into the bathroom giving us a wary eye.

"My poop is orange." Wy yelled.

Smiling at the trucker, who was not smiling back, I said, "Nice."

"It's because of the Dr. Pepper." Wy said.

"Ok." I said. "Are you done yet?"

"No. I still got more poop." Wy said.

"Daddy, is he an indian." Ethan asked as he pointed at the trucker at the urinal.

"I don't know son, just because this is an Indian mingo store, doesn't mean that everyone who comes in is an Indian." I said.

"Oh." he said.

Thankfully the trucker was ignoring us, but not for long, because Ethan then asked, "Daddy, what's that."

"What's what son," I said, as I followed his pointing finger to the wall by the door which housed a gargantuan condom machine. Not just any condom machine either. One that has pictures of foxy women in lingerie looking excited about the french tickler and glow in the dark rubbers that are inside.

"Oh." I said. "Never mind that. Wy are you done?"

Ethan sensing something was amiss, pounced on my refusal to answer.

"What is it Daddy?" He said. "What is it?"

The trucker was now smiling at me in the mirror as he washed his hands. Only now I didn't smile back.

"Son, just forget about that. It's nothing. Wy are you done yet!?!" I said.

"No." Wy yelled. "I still have poop."

"What is it Daddy. What's it for?" Ethan asked again.

"Nothing." I said.

"What is it Ethan?" Wy yelled from the stall.

The trucker walked by me, chuckling to himself, as he exited the bathroom.

"I don't know Wyatt." Ethan called back.

"It's a condom machine." I said.

"Condom machine!?!?!" Ethan repeated.

"Yes. It is a condom machine." I said.

"What's a condom?" Ethan asked.

"Forget it son, not now. I'll explain later," I pleaded.

"Dad." Wy yelled from the stall.

"Yes." I said.

"What's a comma-done?" he asked.

"Guys," I shouted, "Let's forget it for now."

"Why." Ethan asked. "Is it bad?"

Is it bad, I thought, Yes, it's bad ---- being forced to have a birds and bees type conversation in a gross shitter in Tushka fucking Oklahoma.

But instead I lied, and said, "No. It's not bad."

"What is it for, Daddy?" Ethan asked.

"It's for men, son." I said. "You put a condom on your penis."

"Oh..." he said, "Why?"

"It's for safety." I said, praying this would answer his question enough for him to stop this line of questioning.

"Oh." he said. "Why are there girls on it if it's for boys?"

"Because the boys that buy condoms at a Tushka mingo store think that these condoms will impress those type of girls. I guess. It's advertising." I said. "It's all bullshit."

"Oh." he said.

"Wy are you done yet?" I asked.

"Daddy." Ethan asked. "It's kind of like the gumball and toy machines at Chuck's."

"Kind of, son, I guess." I said.

"It takes quarters." Ethan said.

"Yes. It takes quarters." I said.

"Like the gumball and toy machines at Chuck's." he pronounced.

"Dad." Wy yelled from the stall.

"Yes." I said.

"My poop is green now." he said.

Until I BLOG again...Ev'rybody says it's just like rock'n'roll.