I used to be a champion at speed sipping
chocolate milk through a straw.
I liked the old paper straws, the ones with red and white stripes that
twisted Ďround each other. The plastic ones with the large
roller coaster loops were fun to watch, but took too much time.
The chocolate flew upside-down and loop-de-looped wildly
until I got yelled at by Ma to stop playing with my drink. I hated
the ones with the crinkled neck that you could bend in all directions
to fit the angle of your mouth. The crick-crick-crick of that articulation,
like a transit bus bending round a corner,
was as bad as my friend Santos cracking
his knuckles on each fist, one at a time.
I decide to challenge my grandson to a sipping contest
while we are chowing down on burgers and a basket of fries.
Under the guise of having been the best sipper when I was his age,
I boast that, like a knight of old, I could smite the best chocolate milk suckers
like I was dispensing deplorable jousters at a spring tourney.
Huh? is his response. What are you saying, Grandpa?
Never you mind, I say. Do you dare try to rise to this challenge?
Because, in the end, you will writhe in the morass of chocolate milk despair!
I donít understand a word of what you're saying, Grandpa, but, yeah, Iím ready,
his face aglow with anticipation.
Then let us dye our lips, I cry, with that sweet, brown substance!
Pointing heaven-ward, I finish with,
May the gods of yore smile upon us both!
Oh, Grandpa, whatever. Just start sipping and get ready to lose.
I raise a gray and hairy eyebrow towards him, smile, and purse my lips.
© by Randy Mazie.
Used with the authorís permission.