Cleatus Takes Gold In Beer Run

Cleatus Littell, my good friend and close associate, tumbled into the house this past week.

“Don’t mind iff a do,” he said over his shoulder on a dead sprint for the refrigerator and the cold, malted beverage therein.

Then, he was back to the couch, can in one hand, TV remote in the other.

He’d already changed the channel to watch the Olympics - something that somewhat surprised me.

“Whut?” he asked, taking a long, protracted swig from the can and noticing my questioning look. “Hey, in my younger days, I coulda been an Ollimpian. My specialty wuz the bars.”

He guffawed for a second, finished the first can and threw it toward the cat, accidentally hitting the trash can.

If ever there is an Olympic event involving sprints, refrigerators and aluminum cans, we’ve got a sure gold medal winner right here in Northwest Arkansas.

“Didja see the men’s gymnastics team?” he asked with a belch. “Three words: Pit-tea-full. It’s pretty easy to nail those landings wiff out taking a step when you land right-square on your buttocks.”

Another swig. Another errant thought.

“Besides, they looked like a bunch’a Umpa-lumpas on stare-roids,” he said, accompanied by a mighty gulp.

With Cleatus you never can tell what - or if - he’s thinking. For all I knew that he knew, a “stare-roid” was an itchy bump you got on the inside of your eyes from straining your vision.

“And,” he continued. “I thought ’Merican wimmin gymnasts were supposed to be all cute and nice. If I’s headed into a bar room brawl, I’d rather have the wimmin gymnists wiff me than the men. Those gals look tough - ’cept fer the glitter.”

Back to the refrigerator.

“I mean, how tuff is some of that stuff the men messed up on?” and I knew that was a rhetorical question, so I left him with a rhetorical sigh.

“You and I’ve done someof them same tumblin’ routines comin’ outta bars back when we were in college,” he imbibed. “Of course, ours weren’t exactly planned.”

Refrigerator again. The longer he talked, the faster he drank.

To get him off the gymnastics, I decided a diff erent tack.

“So,” I said, “have you watched any of the equestrian events?”

“Sure! I’ve watched ever swimmin’ event they’ve had,” Cleatus said, and then he attempted to burp “The Star Spangled Banner.”

He about made it to the “land of the free,” but he ran out of breath before the fi nale.

“I just got one, maybe two, possibly three questions ’bout swimmin’,’’ he slurred, and I knew he’d forget two of the three questions. “How come the wimmin in jumpboardin’ (he meant diving - sometimes you have to translate on the fl y) wear decent bathing suits, but the men wear them little ol’ Speedos?”

Once more to the refrigerator and he was beginning to fade coming down the stretch.

He took another swig and added, “Makes me not ever want to wear mySpeedo again,” and I felt an involuntary shiver run down my spine. That was a mental picture I knew was going to follow me to the grave.

“Welp,” he said, wobbling up from the couch and heading toward the door.

“Guess I’d butter get back to the house.”

Then he stopped at the door and gave himself a TSA pat-down looking for his house key.

“Don’t wanna wake my wife up,” he said, staring at the doorknob while making the crucial decision whether to turn it to the right or to the left.

“I’m in a little bit of trouble,” he hiccupped. “We were watchin’ wimmin’s gymnasts the other night and my wife asked me, ‘How do you think I’d look in one of those?’ She was talking about what the mother of one of the girls was wearing during a crowd shot. By the time I looked up at the TV, they were showin’ the gymnast. And I said, ‘You’d look like 40 pounds of potatoes shoved into a 20-pound bag.’ I’m still sleepin’ on the couch.” BOB CAUDLE WRITES A HUMOROUS COMMENTARY ON LOCAL, STATE AND NATIONAL ISSUES. HE IS AN EQUAL OPPORTUNITY INSULTER.

Opinion, Pages 5 on 08/04/2012

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