Hey everyone!
Now on to Part III. As I considered what we would share for these three posts, I realized that Part II would naturally be sad. Writing about your brothers death is not easy....not fun to read either. So I thought it would be good to lighten things up for Part III.
In today's post, Jason's best friend Ryan Head will be the featured guest. He and his wife Melissa serve as
missionaries in Togo. Today Ryan will be recounting the story of Rich's participation in our prune eating contest. Ryan and I were known to find ways of competing against each other. You know what I'm talking about....drinking a gallon of milk in an hour or less without throwing up (we both lost that one), etc. In this case, Ryan and I had agreed upon prunes. After the bet was set, we made our way to the local Piggly-Wiggly and picked up four cans of potent prunes. Rich had decided to tag along and was on his way to "initiation." Now onto this hilarious version of the story and its explosive result!
The Prune Eating Contest
There are some things you never forget: your wedding day, your first kiss, where you were when the towers were hit. And then there’s the prune eating contest of ’03.
There are moments of genius birthed outside the realm of reason, only later to be immortalized for its contributions to humanity. The prune has invariably left its mark.
It was a calm autumn evening chez (French for "house of") Head. The Pon boys were coming for dinner. This would make your average meal maker whimper. Mama Head didn’t bat an eye. She made her famous sour cream enchiladas with refried beans and rice. We ate to our hearts content and then some. Pon, Rich, Beep, and Head were already moaning with overly satiated guts. Then came out the canisters.
Pon and Head had already planned this event, like many others. The insides of the prune packages were already greased with black residue from these gastric cherry bombs, and what was to follow was sure to be dynamite!
One after another we gummed through the sweet, tarry mess. With our stomachs already full, the thickness was tickling our gag reflexes. So we ate some more.
A little disheartened, no prunes resurfaced. Little did we know, they were working their magic.
Mama Head, wiser than the four adolescents threatening to tarnish her dining room, suggested we go outside and walk down our meal.
The cool night air was mildly refreshing as we made our way around the corner. This might have helped some folks. To Rich it was like giving sweet tea to a beached whale. The boy was worse for wear. When we were too far away to run back to the house he exclaimed, “I can’t take it anymore!” He dropped his pants and undies in one fell swoop. Not a second later his sphincter released a gooey heap down to the curb. The poor lad couldn’t help the explosion much less his body’s reflex to urinate at the same time. Distracted by his rectal misfire, his aim was a bit off and he peed directly into his pants around his ankles.
Needless to say, the rest of us were painfully laughing at our ill-fated contestant. Gripping our aching bellies, we were all but rolling in the street. We at least knew that that would have been a bad idea.
Rich then had to do the walk of shame back to the house. The unfortunate precedent being the pulling up of his soupy shorts. We got back to the house and told, through fits of laughter, the fruition of our exploits.
Pon, Rich, and Beep piled into Pon’s car, some heads a little higher than others. For days and weeks to come, the curb was stained black with the acidic filth. Once the rains did their work, that small patch was actually cleaner than any other part. I dare say it even glistened.
When I remember Rich, my mind invariably goes back to moments like these. This is how I choose to remember him. He was a young man whose heart was more tender and caring than most. Who knew that it would be the same heart that would shorten his days with us. I love you Rich, and remember you fondly.
You can continue to follow our journey here:
