Last night Steve and I were sitting on the couch talking and playing around. He has very loose skin on his face and loves to mush it around. He mushed it all together in the center and said something goofy. I laughed and said, "no, you say 'hello, my name is chubby'." He said "what?"
"Chubby. you know, the Chubby stories."
He gave me a very blank look.
"you don't know the chubby stories."
and my world view was rocked just a bit.
Steve and I didn't know each other growing up but we lived 45 miles apart. There was definite communications between our towns. He knows about Orange you glad I didn't say bananna, pinching on St. Patrick day, noogies, the proper response for "and now you know!" All the standard playground jokes. How could he not know Chubby? Chubby was part of growing up. There were four stories of the adventures of the little Chubby which must be told with your hands at the side of your face squishing it all in, a very goofy way to tell a story, which is why it's so funny to an eight year old. You don't even laugh at the story, mostly because it's pretty dumb, it's the way the person telling the story looks. Chubby is about as un PC as you can get and if I hadn't heard them growing up I would probably be slightly miffed hearing them for the first time now.
Instead, I tried to tell my husband the Chubby stories last night (complete with actions) and I was laughing too hard to get it out.
Ah Chubby . . . . sigh. good times. good times. tell me the rest of you know Chubby.