The Big Zitbowski

The other day, after swimming a ba-zillion laps in the pool trying to forget that my father was trying to coach my mother in the role of Calamity Jane, (please read below) lap after lap after lap I swam, most of my worries drifted towards the drain of the pool and I emerged only slightly pissed. Will and I headed to the hot tub where we immersed ourselves in boiling water hoping the rest of my worries would mix with the filth of the neighbors and dissipate and hopefully we wouldn't depart the steaming bath with the clap.

While we were sitting in the forced bubble-tude, I rubbed the pimple (okay, zit) that had taken up residence on my forehead. I said (somewhat in denial), "Damn, this little pimple hurts".

And Will responded with instruction, "Don't touch it, or them, don't touch them, there's actually a bunch of them and you should just leave them alone. Otherwise, you'll just turn all of them into one GIANT one that will just take up that whole area on your forehead."

Suddenly feeling like a troll, I said, "Gee, thanks...I won't."

He always knows just what to say.