Because it was getting late last night, Jake very sweetly offered to accompany me on my greenway walk .
Nearing the end of the two and a half mile walk I was in a good groove and starting to tire, but Jake, the cross-country runner, was just loosening up.
First he started skipping next to me, a grin on his face as he waited to see what I’d say.
“Dude, I almost hope a small herd of cute girls comes around that corner.”
“That would be bad,” answers Jake, and immediately stops skipping. “It would be bad enough just being seen with my Mooom.” He’s grinning from ear to ear, and I ignore the little creep.
Next, he matches his stride to mine, and continues this way for a few moments before announcing that we should tie our legs together and do the remainder of the walk three-legged.
“A three-legged walk?”
“Yeah! Good clean hippie fun!”
“The hippies like three-legged walks?
“Yeah mon! They love the three-legged walks, mon!” For some inexplicable reason, he’s broken into a loud, bad, Jamaican accent. “We can do the three-legged walk, mon, and smoke de ganges.”
“Smoke the Ganges?”
“Yeah mon! We smokin’ de ganges in de bong, mon! And havin’ a three-legged walk!”
“Yeah! Some tasty ganges!”
“It’s gonna be hard to smoke the Ganges,” I tell Jake.
“No mon! We be chillin’ smokin’ de ganges like de hippies!”
“The Ganges is a river in India, Jake.”
“Maybe the hippies should smoke some ganja instead. Because it would be hard to get the Ganges into a bong.”
“Oh no mon, we been smokin’ de wrong ting?”
‘I don’t really have to worry about you and drugs, do I?”
“No, mon!” And he’s laughing as hard as I am.
Three words. National. Honor. Society.