How I Lost My Glass Eye

    How I Lost My Glass Eye

Being who I am, I've always had trouble with my memory, both short term and long term. I keep forgetting little things like where I left the keys to my truck, where I parked, and the fact that my driver's licence was been suspended ever since I backed into a police cruiser. Then there's the more important factors to my life that you would think I'd remember after all these years. I still can't remember what date my wife's birthday is, or my girlfriend's, for that matter. Sometimes I even forget their names, or worse yet, I get them mixed up during the height of passion. It's been the cause of great embarrassment on my behalf. Fortunately, I'm an alcoholic, so the mistake is usually blamed on my slurred speech. As a result, no one listens to what I have to say, especially my wife.
Since we take the trivialities of life for granted, so much slips by unnoticed. What I suggest is that we pay closer attention to our actions. Otherwise, we might end up hurting the ones we love, or in my case, my wife.
Case in point, there was an incident a while back in which I "forgot" that I had the safety off on my gun. I was "cleaning" it when I "accidentally" shot my ex-wife in the leg. Needless to say, she was pretty upset, which is why, I suppose, we got divorced. Now, thanks to a court order, I have to pay her alimony. I also have to keep a distance of five hundred feet from her at all times.
On a separate occasion, I was working as a courier when I to forgot to make a special delivery. Even though I left the cooler in the back of my truck, I can clearly remember saying, "Screw the kidney patient, I'm gonna have me a drink."
Another time, while I was in a restaurant (Hooters, to be precise) a man seated at the table next to me started to choke. I couldn't remember the Heimlich manoeuvre, but I did remember seeing an episode of M.A.S.H. once. Using my knife, I plunged a hole in his trachea, opening up an air passage for him to breathe through. After saving his life, the bastard thanked me by taking me to court. To make a long story short, I lost the case. Now I have to keep a distance of five hundred feet from him at all times. The moral is to never help anyone.
Yet, of all the things I've forgot, I never expected to forget where I put my glass eye.
I have a glass eye, or at least I used to. It's a memento from one of my ex-girlfriends. When you cheat on a woman, make sure you don't cheat on her in her own apartment, because in the right hands, a pair of nail clippers can do a lot of damage. I told my wife I lost it in a bar fight, but I think she figured out what happened when a prostitute involved in the incident came by the house to see if I was okay, and to get the money I owed her. Fortunately, I knew her pimp, so I got off with a severed ear. The doctors were able to sew it back on, but it's crooked, so I wear my hair long when I don't have to cover my bald spot. That's basically why you should never tell a prostitute where you live.
I might know where I lost my eye. I recall I was at a party the previous night, but I don't know who's house it was at. Since I woke up in a puddle of my own vomit, I suppose I must have been drunk, which really goes without saying. There's this little trick I do at public gatherings where I pop out my glass eye and replace it with an olive, or an onion from my martini glass, depending on which I'm served. It stings a bit, but it always gets a laugh, especially from optometrists. I don't know why that is. I must have given a performance, because when I picked myself up off the bathroom tiles, I discovered my eye was missing and there was some salt lining my empty socket.
Of course, the question still remains, "Where the Hell's my eye?"
The real problem, as I see it, is locating which house I was I was at. My girlfriend should know, but I'm not supposed to call her after three because of her "fiance." Apparently, a purely sexual relationship just isn't what she's looking for. Some women don't know what they want. Looking at my watch, which I stole from my girlfriend, I can see it's four o'clock. My wife would be busy with phone sex line, so I couldn't call Betsy even if I wanted to. I missed work again, but that's nothing new. Besides, I'm a lawn care specialist, so no one really cares whether I show up or not.
I got on the case after having breakfast, which consisted mainly of Lucky Charms and vodka, mixed together in a cornucopia of flavour. I wouldn't have had to make it myself if my wife would get off her ass and cook me some toast. When I confronted her about my dilemma, she swore at me, or at the man on the other end of the line, I'm not sure. I try not to pay any attention to her, since I don't want to get too attached.
Getting in my truck, which was impounded several times, I drove around for an hour or two, drinking from a bottle of tequila I found under the seat, before I remembered what I was looking for. Then I forgot again, so I went to a strip club. After I was kicked out by the bouncer for inappropriate misbehaviour, my memory came back to me, so I climbed into my truck and continued my quest. I saw a place I recognized so I went up and rang the doorbell, after running into the mailbox. I had a vague recollection of myself urinating in the rose bushes beside the house while clad in a soiled toga made from some kid's Power Ranger bed sheets. That could have been last night or last year, however, so I wasn't sure if I was at the right house.
After an hour and a few rear-ends later, I stumbled upon the house. Literally. I ran over the mailbox.
Ringing the doorbell, I found nobody was home, so I broke in. I discovered many mementos from the previous night, but not a single glass eye. It wasn't long before the police came by, so I stuffed my pockets with as much stuff as I could and got the hell out of there.
After ditching the cops at the mini-mall, I went home with a broken heart. I'd lost my lucky eye, the one I'd stolen from an old Vet at the pub when he passed out.
I took most of my anger out by yelling at my wife, who managed, as usual, to win the argument. Taking what little pride I had left, I retreated to my bathroom to take care of some business and recollect myself. She hadn't cleaned the floor since I'd gone on my futile hunt, so I had to step very carefully. As I was making my passage to my throne, I spied something lying in the bottom of the porcelain bowl.
Reaching into the cold water, I pulled out my eye. It must have fallen out while I was purging myself. Cleaning it off on my shirt, I popped it back in, happy as can be.
So I guess it's true what they say, "It's always in the last place you look."