Once upon a time, a long time ago, a bunch of Camp Towaki counselors were reading the newspaper and saw that The American Council of Spotted Asses was giving a show that next Saturday afternoon. We decided to go. Some of the girls wanted to go because they taught horseback riding, and were actually interested in seeing the donkeys and mules.

The rest of us just wanted the t-shirt. Did they sell t-shirts? If there were t-shirts, I was there.

A t-shirt that said “Spotted Asses.” I wore that shirt till it was too raggedy to dust with. I wore it mostly because my mother hated it and made the mistake of telling me so. And also because it had the word ‘asses’ on it, in proper context so nobody could make me take it off. Well, maybe they could, but that’s a whole ‘nuther story and has nothing to do with ‘asses.’ Well, actually, no, wait. . . . . oh never mind. Too much information, huh.

Sometimes when I’m bored, I type in names of people, places, and things I know, just to see what’s out there. Tonight, I typed in “American Council of Spotted Asses” and whatta you know, it still exists. And they still sell t-shirts.

No, I’m not going to buy one. Not now. But I did get the giggles looking at them, and remember all those years ago when I wore mine defiantly proudly, revelling in the attention and the questions and the coolness of wearing a shirt with ‘asses’ on it.

Did I mention that it was, um, a really long time ago?

Believe it.

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