Breaking News - Man Wears Stained Undershirt in Own Home
Action News Special Report | Filed by freelance reporter, Ima Lyer | 12-10-2010
Acting on an anonymous tip, I arrived at the scene in time to witness the incident still in progress and conduct an on-the-spot interview with the alleged offender, identified only as Fudley. I found him sitting in his kitchen in front of a half-finished plate of French fries and smoking a cigarette in a stained wife-beater undershirt.
“Do you admit that your shirt has a stain on it?” I asked.
“So what if it does?” He was nonchalant. He stared off into space as if I weren’t there.
“Do you own a washing machine?” I asked.
“Not only do I own one, but I am a washing machine repairman,” he bragged.
“Then you really have no excuse to be wearing a stained undershirt,” I prompted. He glared at me for a minute.
“I didn’t know anyone was coming over,” he said defensively.
“I suppose you thought you could get away with it?”
“Get away with what? Wearing a shirt of my choice in my own home? You’re some kind of weirdo,” he said snidely with a sideways glance. I knew we were getting into dangerous territory now.
“I’m just trying to get the facts,” I assured him bravely. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Why don’t you go report on the president or global warming or something?” he asked.
“Your diversionary tactics won’t work with this reporter. I have the nose of a bloodhound. I sniffed out this story and I’m not letting it go until I get to the bottom of it.” I shook my notebook in his face to make my point. “Now, that shirt you are wearing is technically called a ‘wife-beater’. Do you beat your wife, sir?”
He growled deep in his throat. “I don’t have a wife. If I did, do you think my shirts would have stains on them?”
“That’s very chauvinistic of you,” I remarked. “So you are saying the only thing women are good for is doing laundry?”
He became outraged, picked up a calculator from the table and flung it at the wall. “I never said that. But it does occur to me that if you were somewhere doing laundry, I could finish my French fries in peace.”
“Let’s just get down to brass tacks, why don’t we,” I said, not backing down. “Now are you or are you not going to wash that shirt?”
“I probably will. Eventually. Stop pressuring me.”
“Will you be pre-treating that stain?” I asked.
“Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. I don’t have to answer any more of your questions.” When he stood, I noticed he had a stain on his pants as well.
“What brand of laundry soap do you use?” I asked, giving his pants a critical eye.
“None of your business. Now get out of here before I do something completely outside my character.”
“What? Like wash a dish or organize your clutter? Empty threats, my friend, empty threats. You don’t scare me.”
“If you think this is a real scoop, you ought to come back this weekend. I plan to put on my house slippers and wear them until Sunday night, even to the grocery store. Now there’s a newsflash for you.” His sarcasm made him all the more threatening, but I held my ground as any good reporter would.
“What grocery store do you go to?” I asked. “Will you be buying any detergent?”
I was escorted to the door at that point, but I managed one more question before it was slammed in my face.
“Are you going to change into a clean shirt now?” I called as I was shoved onto the front porch.
He refused to answer the question. More on this story as it develops.