The most wonderful thing happened today. There was a coke fountain right in the middle of my kitchen. Yes. It’s true. An actual, spurting fountain of coke.
I was so excited. The last time I saw something of this magnitude I was six years old and enjoying my sandwich in the gym. A little boy across the room started screaming and all the other kids shuffled their bums as fast as they could in another direction. There, right where the boy had been was a giant, glorious stream of pop, flying straight into the air. It almost touched the ceiling.
“He shook it a lot.” Whispered a little boy.
“Yuck! I’m all sticky! My dress is ruined!” the girl next to me moaned.
“Who was that boy?” I asked, “I want to marry him.”
It’s true. Since that day I have been trying, with no success, to figure out how to get a can of pop to shoot straight into the air. Call it a hobby. Perhaps it is one of the sad side effects of being too curious. Good thing I’m not a cat.
Well, today my husband decided to carry up three cans of pop from the basement … which he then promptly dropped on the kitchen floor. The pop in two of the cans started to spurt out everywhere … all over the table, walls, me …
“Open your mouth!” I yelled “It’s a coke shower!”
“Are you crazy? Look at the mess!”
“Wee!” I said, skidding through a bubbly puddle and into the cabinets.
“Well, make fun if you want. Everything’s all sticky, and now we’re going to have to clean up.”
You’d think he’d be excited. I married the cool kid with the coke.