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One Wednesday morning, at 6:30 AM, I rolled over to turn off my alarm and saw the naked man. By naked, I mean just that--naked from head to toe, devoid of any clothes, wearing God’s natural spandex. His sweaty black hair was matted to his head in several places and he looked tired and out of breath.
This naked man was in no way attractive, and he seemed to be as painfully aware of this as I was. He stood with is hands clamped around his front like he was afraid it would jump off and run away, and his face was a brilliant shade of red, especially around the tips of his ears.
I responded the way any man would to finding another person of his own gender in his room--naked--I sprang from my bed and began frantically searching for something, a bat, a lamp, or--even better--a bazooka, to use to defend myself against this nude assailant. I eventually settled for my wife’s ceramic monkey she kept on a our night stand. It was hideous and I had begged her not to buy it. It was $50, and wouldn’t fit anywhere in the house. Besides, it was heavy and would scratch whatever we set it on. Now I was glad she bought it.
After a moment, realization dawned on me as I squared off against this fishy-pale, pudgy man. The man grew increasingly uncomfortable under my stare and turned his back to me, giving me full view of his nude buttocks. He noticed this after a moment and, with his back still turned, put his hands over his exposed derrière.
Moments after he’d done this, the door to our room burst open, and in came my wife with an armful of grocery bags.
Our exposed visitor greeted this new development with horror and dove under our bed with speed belying his plump stature, crying out in shock.
My wife followed my eyes as I watched this, and glanced at me quizzically.
“Honey, what is it?”
I looked up in surprise.
“Nothing, dear, just watching the dust bunnies and thinking about all the paperwork I’ll have today.”
She smiled at me, her radiant beauty filling me with a warmth only a few lucky men know.
“You always seem to carry your work home with you.”
She’s right, I do.
Once my wife had left the room, I helped my nude companion out from under my bed and helped him through the house. He refused to go first, insisting to stay right behind me. When my wife called my name, his eyes widened in horror at the thought of further embarrassment.
“Where are you going? You haven’t eaten breakfast yet!”
“I’ll grab something from McDonalds on the way to the office.”
I could practically hear my wife’s eyes roll from the kitchen. She detests fast food, and insists on serving only organic food at home.
“Some day, when you’ve croaked from too many French fries, they’ll find enough grease in your arteries during the autopsy to grease a 747,” she says to me regularly.
To stave off a lecture so early in the morning, I called, “I’ll order a salad!”
I hurriedly said goodbye after that and rushed out the door.
My bare friend insisted on having the car door opened to him. He sat down haughtily, as if trying to retain some dignity.
I tried my best not to smile, but it’s hard to look noble and respectable when your sitting in a tiny silver Volkswagon with no clothes on, and your face is the color of a boiled lobster. He must have realized this fact too, for he refused to meet my eyes all the way to the office.
I did not stop for breakfast of any kind.