Ask any guy with a mustache and he’ll tell you, “watch out for POP-TOP cans!”
The other day I grabbed a cold beer out of the fridge, popped the top, took a huge swig. In the process, about 1/4 of my mustache wedged in the crease of the aluminum pull-tab. Normally, only a hair or two is snared. Not this time.
Trying to hold back my laughter, I stepped into my backyard and sat down in a lawn-chair. Everything was as it should be: hummingbirds swooped to and from the feeder like planes at a busy airport; a dragonfly waited nervously on the tip of a cattail; some weird guy was sitting on a lawn chair with a cold beer stuck firmly upside his nose. Someone knocked at my gate.
“Hey,” shouted Jim, my next door neighbor. “You in there?”
“Yes!” I hollered, the word hooting inside the beer can. “Come on in!” Not wanting to look like a total idiot, I tugged the beer can free from my face, a tuft of mustache hair jammed in the beer can’s popper ring. A tear trickled down the side of my face.
I took a sip of beer. “Oh, not much.”