Certain kinds of salmon manage to travel 900 miles upstream from the Pacific ocean into central Idaho to have babies. And, seriously, judging by this gross picture of a dissected salmon, salmon brains are freaking tiny. I mean, look at that thing. If a salmon can get back upstream to have sex with salmon-chicks on that much brain, how come my highly evolved mammal-brain can’t figure out phone numbers?
Here’s an(other) example.
“Hey guys,” I was saying last summer to a couple of friends. “Listen to this crazy story and see if it makes sense to you.
“In the two-hand-touch football game that I was refereeing today, there was a cute girl who was my assistant referee.”
My friends are smart asses, so it wasn’t a stellar brainstorm to start a story like that. Comments like “Wait, you’re talking about coed high school two-hand-touch pommel horse?” and “Did you touch her with two hands?” immediately interrupted my narrative.
Look. For the record, it was an adult social two-hand-touch coed football league, where “adult” means “over 22” and “social” means “everyone goes to the bar to drink afterwards.” It was a lot of fun, and I’m thinking of getting a team together to play this year. So there. Anyway, I continued telling my story, even though my friends, and I say this with nothing but love in my heart, are dicks.
“No, dicks. She was nice to talk to during halftime and she said she worked for some downtown bank company, and I liked her. I mean, we talked a fair amount. I hope I see her again.”
“At the next pommel-horse game?”
“Shut up. Anyway, I saw her talking to some guy from her spot on the sideline while I was out on the field in the second half. So I mean, whatever. But then here’s the strange part. One of her jobs was to keep score on a laminated score card with a wax pencil. She gave me the scorecard at the end of the game so I could go record the score in the official scoring chart. But when I was erasing the score from the front of the score card, I flipped it over and noticed that she had written her name and phone number on the back. I looked around and didn’t see her in case she needed it, so I just erased it.”
” . . . ” was pretty much the response of all of the guys.
“I figured she, like, wrote it down to give to the guy she was talking to. But, the thing is, that doesn’t make any sense, because she had to give the card to me at the end of the . . . wait a second.”
Like old, forgotten beers slowly appearing at the back of my refrigerator when I clean out old spoiled leftovers, the truth started to dawn on me.
“Wait – do you guys think she was trying to give her phone number to me?”