When we were dating, my wife used to scratch my head a lot. I liked this better than back scratchin’, not that back scratchin’ is bad, but head scratchin’ is better. There isn’t anything I would rather have for Father’s Day or a birthday than a good head scratchin’. One of those where I go off into a deep sleep while being scratched and come to about four hours later. Now that is what I call a good head scratchin’.
All this good scratchin’ carried forth into our marriage, but came to an abrupt end as soon as the young’uns came along. Once young’uns come, every woman out there knows she is in total control. They might not tell you this, fellas, but it is true and deep down in your gut you know it. If I mention head scratchin’ to my wife now, she gives me a look that sends shivers of divorce lawyer right down my spine.
It has been a mighty long time since I had a head scratchin’ like the one I described above, but the other night my youngest granddaughter, 20-month-old Maylie, came for an overnight visit. She, I, and my wife were in bed reading children’s books that my wife had fished out of storage and all was going well until Maylie spotted the unused head massager on my bedside table where I keep it just in case my wife gets overcome with a guilty conscience. It is one I got from my barber, Johnny Giddens, a red one with a ring that fits over your finger. Maylie grabbed it and immediately started scratching my head just like she knew what she was doing. I can tell that the girl is destined for greatness. There isn’t a man alive she can’t have for her own if she just keeps honing this gift of head scratchin’, and Papa aims to help her in this regard all he can.
I have often thought of a way to come up with a head scratcher and thought of calling my pal, the inventor Cecil Holt, and tell him to quit with that Nut Wizard pecan picker upper he invented and get started trying to come up with the gift that would win him the affection of manhood the world over, and in the offing, a Nobel Peace Prize; a motorized home head scratcher.
Think about it! What man, sane or insane, would want to blow themself up, not to mention everyone else that happened to be standing around, when they could stay at the house and get a good head scratchin’. Seventy-two virgins is one thing but once a man reaches a certain age, I promise you, a good head scratchin’ is better than anything else.
Well, yesterday my son walked up and stuck a gizmo on my head and started working it up and down whereupon my head instantly dropped on my chest and I was about start sawing logs when he quit. It is a store bought “portable self- powered stress reliever” head scratcher.
Stress reliever my hind leg. By the time I finally stopped begging someone to use it on me, I was so stressed out I nearly had to open a new jug of homemade wine. I mean if one has to operate the thing by hand, and that hand your own, well, it just seems to take some of the starch out of it.
I even tried to bribe Fox, the Wonder Lab, to do it but he took a cue from you-know-who and started whining about not having any thumbs.
Cecil, if you will invent a way to put a motor on the thing, you are destined for greatness.