Pass the Lysol

In this post, I mentioned that I actually had a story about ballsweat.
Not everyone has a story to tell about it, of course.
I'm just... lucky. And after you read this post, I'm sure you'll feel lucky, too.

For several years, my mom did shift work in our little town.
Sometimes swing shift, sometimes graveyard.

When she worked the graveyard shift, she did a morning wake up call to us so my dad could get ready for work and we could all get ready for school.

The phone would ring at about 6:30 or so, and my dad, who was a little nutty then and is still nutty now would bark out his usual, "LET IT RING TWICE!!" and then answer it himself.

I don't know how that particular bit of oddity came about. He couldn't stand it when we answered the phone on the first ring. Wherever he was in the house, he would bellow that out. And you'd better by God listen, too. We had a long list of things we couldn't do. It was a lot bigger than the list of things that were allowed, now that I think of it.

My dad slept in his underwear. He'd stagger out into the living room and stand next to the phone (they were still connected to the wall in those days, I'm old) and hold the phone with one hand, reach into his underwear with the other and scratch his balls.

Then, he would switch hands and hold the phone with the hand that already had balls all over it.

And scratch the other side.

My brother and I were revolted but also found it fucking hysterical.

After Dad hung up and went into the bathroom to start getting ready for work, my brother would get the Lysol. And we'd spray the hell out of the telephone receiver, alternately laughing and making disgusted noises.

My mom could never understand, "Why is Lysol on the list again this week?"