Ass Wingman

It itches so very, very bad and there is nothing that I can do about it. It's driving me insane and I am powerless to stop it. I am powerless to stop it because society deems it in bad taste to itch it in public. And I can't hide the itch because my son has no idea what it means to be an ass wingman.

Look, let's throw all of our cards out on the table here. Let's quit beating around the bush. Everyone gets ass itches. Everyone. Don't sit there all high and mighty and pretend that you do not. And when get them, we itch them. Usually discreetly, usually with as much class as we can muster and usually we itch them very quickly so as not to embarrass ourselves beyond redemption.

I have one at the grocery store and this is the problem. There is not discreet way to get at this and it is driving me insane. Normally, this wouldn't be a problem. If I was with Hossmom, she would play the part of my wingman. We would head down a seldom used isle, such as auto supplies. She would check both ways and if the coast was clear, she would give me the thumbs up. She then would then walk directly behind me covering my approach and eventually relief. I would do the same for her. She is the perfect ass wingman.

Once you have been together for 15 years, there aren't many secrets left. When you have been in the delivery room and seen what goes on there, an ass itch is considered polite conversation. When you have had to have serious discussions about hemorrhoids and constipation, an ass itch conversation is pretty easy to get to. Welcome to marriage boys, glad you are here.

My son though is a horrible ass wingman. He's terrible and I'm a bit disappointed in both him and me. I am disappointed in him because I thought he would always have his old man's back. I thought he would stick up for me when I needed it. And I am disappointed in me because apparently I have never taught him the importance of being an ass wingman. Now I'm stuck and I'm actually starting to sweat because I can't get at this thing.

I have tried everything. I have done lunges down the aisle. I have done jumping jacks. I have tried to do squats. It's not working, it just made the itch worse and there appears to be nothing that I can do about it. My son isn't helping matters as he is constantly drawing attention to us. "Dad, why are you doing that!?" He screams. "Dad, I want candy!" louder each time he sees stupid candy. They have candy in every aisle, everywhere, throughout the grocery store. In the auto aisle they have gummy candy shaped like wrenches. Dude, give a guy a break.

This is not helping matters. He should be walking behind me like a secret service agent checking his ear piece and looking out for potential threats. He should not be trying to drag all the pasta down on the shelves.

I can't take it anymore, this has to end. There are no more exercises that I can do to create friction and I can't take it, I'm a weak man. We go down an aisle to do recon. I tried to send my son off as the advanced scouting party but he decided that instead he wanted to jack with the cereal boxes. It can't be helped. I'm about to go in, do what has to be done.

I hear a scream behind me. My son wasn't paying attention, this is not unusual. While he was looking at all the pretty colors on the boxes he ran into the back of the cart, whacking his head hard enough to give himself a concussion. He goes down.

The alarm he sends out goes through out the store. A family rounds the corner, a nice little set of twins in a race car cart. Abort mission. I am beginning to think that my son is a secret ass itch agent trying to thwart my attempts.

There is no helping it now, I go pick up my son and comfort him. I will not leave the twins and their mother with an image in their head that they can't get rid of.

We walk out of the aisle and toward the front. They have benches in the front of the store. Benches with nice sharp corners. Plan B is in full effect.