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Martha is a tripper. She does not fall on her prat, dive on her face, nor spread on her eagle. Rather, if there is anything whatsoever to trip over, she will trip over it. Furthermore, if there is absolutely nothing to trip over, she will indeed trip over nothing as well.
But my dearest is not only a tripper. She is a toe stubber, an elbow whacker, a noggin knocker, and a fingernail breaker. Her knees are a mess, and her forehead is prone to raising eggs. Martha is not only a tripper and a stumbler, you see; she also walks into walls, doors, furniture, and parked cars.
My beloved, I am sorry to say, is a clumsy oaf.
She also has a potty mouth, spewing forth such invectives as “Shit, that hurt!” or “Really shit, that really hurt!” whenever she is clumsy.
My beloved is also a blaming oaf. Upon stumbling over nothing on the sidewalk, she screams at the non-offender, “THAT DEAD LEAF TRIPPED ME!” No amount of personal inattention is ever her fault.
Caring and compassionate husband that I am, I sympathize with her COD (Clumsy Oaf Disorder). If I have said it once, I have said it 463,728 times:
“What in the HELL is the matter with you? Can’t you watch where you’re going?”
Lest you think that I am picking on my precious Precious Moment, Martha’s entire family is COD (pronounced cod, like the piece). Her parents, her sisters and brother, even the offspring—every single one of them is chronically COD.
Here is a good example. Last summer, while sitting on the patio at my sister-in-law’s house, there was a garden hose lying between the patio table and the back door. During the course of the afternoon, Martha and her sister traveled between the patio and the door several dozen times—one for soda or tea, the other for the bathroom, and then vice versa. Here, for your convenience, is a partial transcript from the audiotape:
[My voice on the tape]
“Honey, don’t you think it would be easier to move the hose out of the path?”
[Her voice on the tape]
‘Why? It’s not in the way of anything.”
You know, I have been giving this whole COD thing a lot of thought. Since it appears to be multi-generational with no generation skipping and a 100% affliction rate, I am certain it is a genetic anomaly instead of a case of mass carelessness.
So Monday morning, bright and early, I will be submitting my paperwork to the National Institutes of Health for a grant of forty-eight billion dollars to study the matter. As soon as the check comes in, lettuce say on Thursday or Friday, I’ll let you know my findings. From our new island in the South Seas, that is, where my little island pineapple will be tripping happily and carefreely over seashells, banana fronds, and absolutely nothing at all.
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So, dear reader, have you ever been clumsy?