I'm Not Gonna Lie Read Online Free PDF Page A

rinse buildup on the shower floor. Not how I want my obituary to read. Do not let that happen to you. Buy a shower mat.
    I’ve never done a survey, but I know that people have shower-mat phobia. It’s a national problem. Too much bother. People don’t like to use shower mats because they get dirty and moldy underneath and it’s too gross to clean them. Admit it: You just throw out the old grungy one and never replace it.
    Go—right now—to Kmart and buy a shower mat. We’re talking about life and death. Or worse. You could fall and hit your head and
not
die. You could end up a diaper-wearing, drooling vegetable who stares at the microwave all day thinking it’s the TV and calls everybody “Nana.”
    Buy a shower mat.
    And don’t believe what people say about the bottom of some tubs: that they’re slip resistant. Really? They don’t resist your slipping and falling on your head. And you know the tubs with the little knobs on the bottom that cost, like, $3,000? Those knobs are bogus. I don’t trust those things, even if it comes out to a dollar a knob. I wouldn’t go in there without a shower mat. Or a helmet. Or a spotter.
    Now let’s move on to something even more serious.
    Baths.
    I love them.
    Just one little problem.
    Getting into the tub.
    At my age, I’m not equipped to lift my leg high enough to get over the lip of the tub. I have to crawl over, like I’m going over the Berlin Wall. You have to raise your leg, vault and roll, and then grab for something to hang on to or pull yourself up and over with, like the shower curtain. This is very hazardous. You could easily pull down the curtain rod and go down with it. The bath is great once you’re in it. It’s getting in that’s the problem. And, yes, getting out, because you encounter the same hazards, only in reverse.
    Help is on the way, though.
    I was watching a golf match on the Golf Channel with my buddy RJ, and a commercial came on for a new kind of bathtub. The tub’s spokesperson, a guy about my age, wearing a puka-shell necklace and a Hawaiian shirt, started pitching this tub, telling me how great it was. Something about this guy seemed familiar. I scooted to the edge of the couch to get a better look. Did I mention that at fifty your vision
and
your hearing start to go? Anyway, I got closer to the TV and ratcheted up the sound. I suddenly recognized the guy because of his voice.
    Unmistakable.
    Pat Boone.
    Yes. Pat
Boone.
    If you said, “I remember Pat Boone,” instead of, “Who the hell is Pat Boone?” then this tub is for you.
    In the 1950s and 1960s, Pat Boone was a huge recording star, known for singing covers of R & B songs like “Ain’t That a Shame” by Fats Domino and for being unbelievably white. I’m not lying. He was famous for wearing shoes called “white bucks.” That sounds way racist to me. I think he hung with Anita Bryant and that crowd, too. But now what pissed me off was that he had to be at least eighty-five and he looked my age.
    At least my career hadn’t spiraled down to the point that I was doing commercials on the Golf Channel for bathtubs.
    What am I talking about? If I’m eighty-five and I look as good as Pat Boone—hell, if I’m upright—I’d kill to land a gig selling bathtubs on the Golf Channel.
    It took me a few seconds to get past Pat and his puka shells, but I finally focused on the bathtub he was demonstrating.
    This was no regular old bathtub. This tub was special.
    This tub had a door.
    It opened like a car.
    You swung the door open, walked in, closed the door behind you, and sat down for your bath. No vaulting, crawling, rolling, or pulling the shower curtain down on your head. Right away this reduced your chances of cracking your head open and drowning in six inches of water.
    The tub was deluxe. It came with climate controls, Jacuzzi vents, every tub accessory you could ever