I did not have access to cigars, thank goodness, or a mustache, but I did have access to a bathtub, water, and a newspaper. Can you guess what I did next?
Okay, I know I draw myself in the bath a lot...like this post about my lovely wife and this post about joyous bum warmers. I have good reason to draw myself in the bath. I love baths. I always prefer them over showers.
I think it goes back to coming from a large family and not always being able to take them. I also have fond memories of long days picking blackberries in the Louisiana woods, dodging water moccasins, slapping away mosquitoes, and watching the fireflies blink in and out of existence in the thick night air. These days always ended with me tromping home slick with sweat, covered in mud, and dripping purple juice from my mouth. My mom always sent me to bathe. There is something about the hot water hitting aching muscles and tiny scratches that exhilarates me. Did you know blackberry bushes had thorns? Now you do. It is a good pain, like the ache after a good exercise. You know the hot water is doing its job.
Or, maybe, it goes back to when I was sick. I'd eat a huge bowl of tomato soup, take a crazy hot bath, and then crawl into bed. Worked every time. I would sweat the cold out while I slept and feel so much better in the morning. Maybe it goes back to the time I lived in Mexico where bathtubs are very rare and the showers are infested with worms and the mother of all cockroaches. That is a different story though.
No matter the cause, I like baths. I will continue to draw them...back to my story at hand. I dragged a whole newspaper into the bathroom, ran some hot water, and climbed in.
My little four or five year old hands didn't hold the paper very high.
The paper touched the water and started to get soggy and leak a little ink into the bath. I continued reading, despite the fact I could not really read yet. I was being a real man. I did not need to read to be a real man, just sit in the tub with the paper and grin at the world like I owned it.
The ink spread further and deeper into the water and the paper soggified even more. At some point my wet fingers could no longer grasp the paper and down it went, bubbling up ink as it sunk.
I had planned for this contingency. I reached for another page.
This page also refused to stay out of the water. The ink swirled around me and my page got soggier and soggier.
Can you guess what happened next? I dropped that page and reached for another. That one got wet and I grabbed another. The cycle continued for some time, each new page releasing more ink like some perpetual squid kicking machine...I may have to invent that. I was oblivious as I struggled to fulfill the task at hand, read a stupid paper in the bath like a freaking man. Maybe I would grow a mustache right there and then. I didn't know! Thank you, Tom Selleck!
Each time I reached for another paper I left dark smudges. I wiped the steam from my face. I smoothed back my hair. So, this is more or less how my mother found me.
I do not recommend you attempt this. Tom Selleck was wrong. It is not cool to read newspapers in the bath. It does not make you a man and it does not grow mustaches...unless you are happy with newspaper smudge mustaches. All it does it leave you an inky mess with a very angry mother. Don't live with your mother? All grown up? Doesn't matter. Wherever your mother is, she will be angry with you, and Tom Selleck for gifting it to the world, and me for bringing it up. Just say no!