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Where’s the Law of Averages When You Really Need It?

So, here’s the thing I don’t understand.

(Okay, so it’s not the only thing I don’t understand. There are lots of things I don’t understand — advanced calculus, chaos theory, people who watch ‘Everybody Loves Raymond‘… but I’m just saying — this is one thing I don’t understand. Just one more for the pile.)

Anyway, here’s the thing: there are three large mammals living in our house — me, my wife, and the dog. There are other, smaller mammals — i.e., mice — that seem to also live here, or at least visit from time to time, but they don’t count, because we’re trying hard to kill the little fuckers. So, forget them. It’s just three mammals that we generally don’t want to die anytime soon, unless maybe one of them pees on the couch. So that’s one part.

Then, there are my pants. My pants are the other part. Large mammals living in my house, and my pants. Those are the two parts. Try and keep up, now — this is where it all comes together.

So, three mammals living in the house. And my pants, which may either be on my body or off. Those are the variables. And there are thus the following possible situations with regard to drool, in decreasing order of goodness:

1) My wife’s drool on my pants while I’m wearing them

Comments: This is exceptionally good. At worst, it means that she’s resting on my lap or my legs, sleeping — and drooling — peacefully. Which is very cute, of course. And at best… well, look, folks, let’s face it — there are only so many ways somebody else’s drool can get on your pants. Oh, mama!

2) My wife’s drool on my pants while I’m not wearing them

Comments: Okay, not nearly as good, except possibly from a kinky, weird ‘jeans-licking’ sort of fetish perspective. And I don’t think I have that particular fetish. At least, it’s never come up before. The hot fudge fetish, sure. The one with the busty twins and the fluffy pillows in a Jiffy Lube — yeah, that one, too. But I’m not sure about the ‘slobbering all over the pants’ one. On the other hand, anytime there’s a woman drooling and I’m not wearing my pants… that has to be pretty good, right?

3) My drool on my pants while I’m wearing them

Comments: Frankly, it’s pretty clear that this is rarely ‘good’, per se. If I’m drooling on my own damned pants, I’m likely in no condition to do anything useful with whatever it is I’m drooling about, whether it’s food, or booze, or a large mammal of some kind. Nuff said.

4) My drool on my pants while I’m not wearing them

Comments: Well, actually, pretty much see #3 above, except add to it that I’ve apparently decided at some point to take my pants off during the process. Nuffer said, I think. Nuffer said, indeed.

5) My dog’s drool on my pants while I’m wearing them

Comments: There’s no possible way this can be good. The dog’s either trying to eat my food, working on taking a bite out of me, or — most often — just drooling indiscrimately all over everything, with my pants just happening to be in the line of slobber. The only good thing about this situation is that if I’m wearing the pants, then I’m usually in a position to nip the drooly dipshit in the bud before they’re soaked completely.

6) My dog’s drool on my pants while I’m not wearing them

Comments: Again, see above. I typically see that this has happened in the aftermath, when my pants are slobber-soaked and dripping with drool. Some people might tell me to stop leaving my pants on the floor. Personally, I think I should just have the dog’s saliva glands removed. Either way — I don’t care. So long as the pants are finally safe.

So. Now that you understand the possibilities — and my strong opinions about which ones are preferable — my question is this:

Why — why, oh dammit why — do these things occur with exactly the opposite frequency from what I want?

Why is it that I find dog-slobbered pants lying around my room three or four times a week, and find myself wearing wife-slobbered pants once in a blue moon? And how is it that I drool on my own pants with haunting regularity? And for that matter, how the hell does the dog even have so much slobber to begin with? She’s the tiniest of the three of us, but that bitch could out-drool my wife and I together in a contest. Put a steak in front of the dog, and you could fricking surf the wave from the kitchen to the living room. Freaky.

Anyway, I’m just saying. I don’t mind being drooled on — it just needs to be the right kind of drool, at the right kind of time. And it almost never is. Who knew slobber could be so persnickety?