This is a near-tragic story in which neither animals nor people were injured, and no actual laws were broken. It took place long ago when newlyweds were often poor and did not live in million-dollar homes. Here we go.
The scene: A sweltering summer night in a small suburban bungalow, where our hero, Douglas, and his ethereally lovely wife, Maryan, are present. She is lying in bed in an adorable baby-doll pajama. He is just exiting the 6x6 bathroom after having showered off the day’s grime. They are horny and in love.
If this had been a film, it would have required a single take with one camera, and, man, I sincerely wish I had had that camera in that moment.
Maryan is propped up on 30 or 40 pillows, reading a trashy book while she waits for her superhero to exit the bathroom and make his way to their bed, his chest thrust out in a manly way, his eyes seeking hers. The bedroom, BTW, is no bigger than a large postage stamp, and the bed is queen-size, meaning there is less than two feet of space between the sides of the bed and the walls. This will be a significant contributor to the upcoming action.
So, the lady in question looks up as the bathroom door opens right next to her side of the bed. Super Doug is standing, magnificently backlit by the bathroom lightbulb — his prowess highlighted by the SFX, a cloud of billowing steam.
Naked but for a towel he is holding to his shoulders like Superman’s cape, he grins powerfully, and his wife precognitively sees precisely what is about to happen.
In slow motion, she raises one hand, palm toward her hero, and tries to shout, “Wait!”
But as the “Wuh….” sound escapes her lips, Doug launches himself off the ground, toward the bed, fully envisioning himself sailing over his bride and dropping strategically next to her on his side of the mattress, ready for action.
Nope.
Alas, poor Douglas. He becomes airborne, indeed, and sails over the bed as he intended. But he keeps going with just enough impetus to clear the bed while performing a perfect triple Salchow (a figure skating feat you’ve seen at the Olympics), spinning in mid-air without losing any speed, and landing with his fine ass embedded between two studs in the now crushed drywall.
You might expect that a hush descends upon the room, followed by a gasp of shock and concern.
Nope. Har har har ha ha hee hooo!!
The fair damsel lays sprawled, helpless on the bed, shrieking in hysterical laughter, the only gasp being her attempt to get air into her lungs as the laughter rolls out of her, causing a deluge of tears to stream down her face.
Ahhhhhhh ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
In the end, he lays wedged in the wall, demanding, “For the love of God, help me.”
While she, without enough compassion to leap to his aid, continues to giggle and guffaw for many minutes.
I mean, you have to see it from her perspective.
A 160-pound, heavily bearded hippy guy goes airborne, hurtles over her supine body, spins in mid-air, and assplants in the wall. It has all the components of the Three Stooges minus two.
In the end (pun intended), she never redeemed herself since she still, 50 years later, takes any opportunity (like this one) to regale friends and strangers with the story. She does have the good grace to no longer refer to him as…Harvey Wallbanger. But she is laughing even now, with no regard for the poor guy’s dignity.
I’m fairly sure that has nothing to do with why they are no longer married, but who knows?
And Douglas? He bears the retellings with aplomb. I mean, it was half a century ago. He keeps his feet mostly on the ground now; in fact, he doesn’t really like to fly in an airplane to this day.
The moral? No matter what your level of passion, remember that humans were never meant to fly.
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