Poke Me

I own a shirt, in fact I own many shirts, but there's one specifically I want to focus on. It's blue, similar in color to jeans (dark wash), but soft. On it is the Pillsbury doughboy in a classic pose. If you can't remember what the Pillsbury doughboy is, he's that little white animated figure with a chef's hat, a big grin and a bit of a tummy - in short, look at this picture:

He's the one getting poked if you couldn't put that together.

Anyway, the shirt reads, in big white letters above the picture, "Poke Me" and so we get to the crux of our story. Last year I lived in dorms at another school and one day I wore this shirt.

I am fond of the shirt, I enjoy the fit, the feel and the fabric's colors (blue and white). Since I'm fond of it, I wear it often. I have a number of shirts, many with clever slogans or something or other written on them and so as the days blend and carry on, I always forget what shirt I am wearing. It is crucial to remember that I always forget the shirt that I'm wearing.

On this particular day I'm wearing the shirt and I'm in my dorm, hungry. Next door there is a mini-store/dining hall where I can get $7.50 worth of stuff at each meal, except breakfast ($5.50 at breakfast). It was nearing the end of the lunch time so I wanted to get over next door and get my money's worth before I lost the opportunity and it became dinner time and I'd miss out on the $7.50 for lunch.

It was a bit of a dreary day, it had rained earlier, but even so I went out, in my shirt, a pair of jeans or possibly pajama bottoms, flip flops and socks (I know that they don't go together but darn it I like warm feet!). 

My feet look kinda like that except the flip flops are white with a blue design on it and the green thing on that is black on mine. I know what you're thinking: that's definitely the next trend in fashion.

As I walk in next door I get a compliment on my shoes, I thank the person and go to the room where all the food is. I pick out a half personal pie of pizza, a bag of Baked Dorito chips and a drink, probably Fuze. I go to the checkout and since I always have the same combo, I know that it comes out to $7.43 or something in that ballpark. 

The food service lady compliments me on my incredible power of picking out four items to total so closely to my limit (as happens every day, with that same lady) and I head back out of the building.

I'm holding my food and push open the door as I leave and a group of three guys is standing off a little to my left, on the grass. As I pass by one of them looks up.

Suddenly he charges me.

I'm cradling a bunch of food in my hands and I don't know what to do. I tell myself that I'll always be prepared if someone tries to mug me and that I'll miraculously be endowed with incredible strength, agility and reflexes and easily take care of the attacker, but in this instance I stood completely petrified.

I didn't budge, I just watched my assailant fly at me with his arm extended. In the blur of action I didn't notice but he had a finger extended towards me which soon finds contact with my stomach, near my solar plexus (ie pain).

I cringe and he jumps back laughing. 

"I had to do it," he says, "man."

Had to do it? Had to do what? Inflict pain and bestow terror on a random guy who passes him?

I didn't know what to think. In my confusion I looked down and remembered the shirt I was wearing.

"Poke Me" - apparently I had asked for this. I brought this on myself.

Now whenever there are "poking" wars on facebook, all I can think of is that crazy kid, I didn't know, charging at me arm extended, jabbing me right in the stomach.

By the way, when I realized, I gave him the trademark giggle of the Pillsbury doughboy, got a laugh out of them and then I retreated to my room to nurse my battle wound and eat. I still wear this shirt, often and get pokes (get confused at first), but nothing so drastic - fortunately.