party at my place

It was a sleepy, Sunday afternoon. The way Sunday afternoons in July can tend to be. We got home from church. Timothy and I put jeans on. We put some of the groceries away. Two and I shared a pizza. We laid around: incapacitated by warm.

Timothy moved the laying around party to the bedroom, where there's at least a ceiling fan, by way of moving himself to the bedroom. Two and I soon followed and somehow, for some reason, the smack talk began.

"I will drop you, old man."

"Two, I'm laying down."

"Then I will pick you up and drop you."

Wisdom told me to remove myself from - literally - the middle of it, and just in time.

What followed, on the two-year-old IKEA bed, was what some may consider masculinity at it's finest - or most typical. With the pungent odor of testosterone thick in the air, Two made good on his promise to pick Timothy up and - from his knees - drop him.

The center support beam in the bed, however, also dropped. Manhood retreated for a moment as two, boyish grins turned my way - one from the edge of the bed and one from the canyon where the mattress once rested - begging, "This is funny, right?"

Given the shocked expressions where, in hindsight, there really shouldn't have been any, I had to admit that it was. And we did what three reasonable, responsible young adults should do when they've done something completely stupid that requires quick attention: We went to visit a friend at work for tea and cookies.