Friday, July 30, 2004

Go Big Red

Chickens have to be clipped if you want to keep them. Otherwise, like any bird, they fly off. They don’t go the way of the Dodo, but they certainly leave your land and hang out at the neighbor’s for a while, have a smoke, drink a beer, shoot the shit, whatever the fuck chickens do when they flap off. The problem is their wing feathers grow in gradually. This gives the potential breakees immediate hope, but not the ability for a while.

I used to sit in the back yard and watch them, desperate fuckers. They’d strut around, 60 Rhode Island Reds to 1 mutt cock. They gathered along the west end of the fenced in chicken yard whenever a jail break was being planned. It was always the same fat bird going for it. I think they conned her into being the patsy. “Come on, Big Red! We’re right behind you, we swear it.” Then Red, overflowing with confidence, would separate from the pack in a burst of speed and feathers. She’d haul ass down the strip of shell laid out for them to eat, clipped wings spread wide, eyes steeled with determination. Her glory cry could be heard across the yard, “Buck-kow! Buck-kow!” Oh yes, even a chicken understands the precious value of freedom. First a breeze, then a gust, and then…then…LIFT OFF!

Like a pot belly pig thrust blindly into the air, that fat Red hen would flap furiously in an effort to gain height. She’d wobble ever higher, propelled by adrenaline and pure desire. “Buck-kow! Buck-kow!” Flap-Flap-Flap-Flap-Flap! Three feet, four feet, five feet.

“Go, Big Red!” I'd shout. “You can do it! Go, go, go!”

“Buck-kow!” she’d cry out to me. Five feet, six feet, almost, almost-

“You can do it, girl! You can do it! Gooooooo-”

YES! She did it! Yes, yes, yes!

Big Red crested the fence line and furiously flapped her way into the freedom land, pride and relief suddenly replacing adrenaline and determination. Her wings pooped out on her and she slowly drifted toward the ground despite her best efforts. I cheered and screamed. “She did it! She did it! Momma, come see, Big Red got over the fence! MOMMA!”

I jumped up and down in excitement. The chickens in the yard rushed the fence, their beaks poking through the holes in shock and envy. “Buck-kow!” Big Red began flapping again, this time lifting just far enough off the ground to take her victory lap when suddenly, from the right, I saw a streak of color and the excited, playful bark of our young dog, Harvey.

“Harvey, NO!”

Unaware of how much had just been accomplished, how much practice, blood, sweat and tears had gone into this particular jail break, Harvey rushed in to snag Big Red by the neck in mid-flight and with one fatal snap he wrung her neck, killing her instantly.

Not one damn chicken ever attempted another break after that.

Thursday, July 29, 2004

You wanna be a cowboy...

Last Friday I was in Kroger’s when I saw a man about my age standing in the check out line with a bouquet of colorful flowers. He was wearing his darkest wranglers, a shiny belt buckle the size of my palm, a starched, white button-down long sleeved shirt and a clean, crisp Stetson. I started thinking about the shit I’ve heard some folks say about cowboys, as if they are uneducated because sometimes they get dirt under their nails. I’m talking about real cowboys, men who’ve been working the livestock since they were tall enough to spit. Not some Levi wearing wannabe from Tallahassee with a chip on his shoulder. So I compiled a list of all the positives, just for those who didn’t know otherwise.

1. Cowboys say “Yes, ma’am” and “Yes, sir” to most everyone. We’re taught it from birth, unlike some who are never taught it at all.
2. Cowboys don’t cheat at cards.
3. If you’re on the side of the road with a flat tire and a man pulls over to help you fix it, then drives away before you can say Thank You, you just had an encounter with a cowboy.
4. You can bet the lazy S.O.B. collecting his monthly Welfare check is not, and has not ever been, a cowboy.
5. One thing you’ll never hear a cowboy say: “I slept ‘til noon today.”
6. One thing you will frequently hear a cowboy say: “You need a hand with that?”
7. Ask a cowboy to choose between a Jaguar full of luxuries and a 20 year old pick up full of memories, he’ll go for the pick up every time.
8. Cowboys don’t air their dirty laundry and don’t tolerate well those who do.
9. There is more honor in a handshake between cowboys, than in a 3 inch thick contract between two attorneys.
10. Cowboys don’t hit women. Cowards do.

I hope the young lady who received those flowers last Friday appreciated them, because he sure as hell must appreciate her.

Cowboy up.

Tuesday, July 27, 2004

I'm a sucker for the ladies

“uncle day, i want baaaaarneeeee. uncle day, i want baaaarneeeee. uncle day, i want baaaarneeeee.”

“There’s no Barney. He went nite-nite.”

My two year old niece ponders this piece of information for a moment before coming up with her own resolution. “uncle day, i want tubbietubbies. uncle day, i want tubbietubbies. uncle day, i want tubbietubbies.”

“Kadybug, Uncle Jay is watching the DNC so he can intelligently tell those far left liberals what’s wrong with their way of thinking.”

She has pure blue eyes and cute white teeth that she chooses to display to me in a big smile. Her head cocks to the right. “uncle day, i want bubbygum. uncle day, i want bubbygum.”

I sigh and turn up the volume on the TV. “Where is your mother?”

“where is yer mud-der?”

“Yes, where is your mother?” I glance at the clock. It will be at least another hour before my sister gets back to get Katy. I hear the faint jingle of the tea pot song in the front room where I futilely left her CD playing to entertain her. “Go in the bedroom and sing Tea Pot.”

“tea pot?”

“Yes, go sing Tea Pot in the bedroom.” Another green notch is added to the TV volume.

“no! no tea pot!”

“Katy, please, let Uncle Jay watch this TV show. See that really big man right there?”

She glances at the TV. “uh huh.”

“He’s big like that because he’s full of hot hair like a balloon.”

Her eyes light up and I was again flashed those cute little teeth. There must be nearly two dozen of them in there. “bal-looooon? i want bal-looooon!”

What did Kennedy just say? “Shhh, Katy, please.”

“uncle day, i wan-na fwacker.”

“What did he just say?” I ask my invisible friend. “Kerry is a fitting heir? For what, ketchup?”

“uncle day, i want chock-it milk. uncle day,” she pats my leg. “uncle day?”

What, Katy? What? What in God’s name can I provide for you at this very moment in time so that you will let me watch this show?”

She froze, unsure of how to react to suddenly being the center of attention. Damn, but she looks just like my sister. She blinked and for just a moment I thought I was going to have to eat a bullet for hurting her feelings.

“kiss you?” and she puckered up, her top lip protruding farther than her bottom in a silly platypus kind of way.

I grinned at her, manipulative little female, and gave her a kiss. Ah, shit. “Katy, do you want to watch Barney?”

“yeah! dank you, uncle day!” She ran and sat on her little yellow chair directly in front of the big screen and put her hands on her knees in anticipation, as if it were the front row in a cinema.

“Your welcome, Kadybug.”

Scrambled eggs

This weekend I went out to mow my lawn because I got a nasty letter that read something like this:

“Dear Ass Wipe,

What the fuck is up with that jungle in your front yard? We saw a Viet Cong hiding within the brush as we drove by. Mow that shit, would ya? And send that dude home.

The Neighborhood Nazis, AKA the HOA”

My next door neighbor hires a team of, shall we say “non-English speaking” professionals to cut his lawn while that fat fart of a fucker that sprang from the fruit of his loins 15 years ago sits on his ass outside playing GameBoy. So this weekend after I finished my lawn I decided to engage the son of bitch and make his life worth while.

“Hey, Juicy.” I’m not fucking with you, that’s his name.

“Yeah?” He stuck a five fingered pork chop over his eyes to squint at me.

“Wanna shoot some hoops?”

The answer was no, but I think he humored me. As it turned out, the boy had some thrust in those haunches. It didn't take long to see Big Juice was in the hizz-ouse!

While we played I applauded myself for getting him up and moving. I started thinking about the positive impact I could have on his life. He would grow up lean and healthy, happy and jovial. He would marry a bombshell that Ang would hate because she’s hot and all the guys will look at her. I will share with him my hard earned secrets, such as the correct method to funnel beer and how to take a leak without ever touching your own penis. As I went in for my lay up I smiled inside and imagined all the—

“Watch out!”

Too late. I was airborne with 200 pounds of momentum headed right for him. He tried to turn away, but I smacked him in the face with my pelvis, serving up a monster size plate of scrambled eggs before we both hit the pavement. The world went painfully horizontal and the animal-like groaning appeared to be coming from my own throat. I spent a moment motionless on the ground, fighting tears and nausea, red-faced and not breathing while my nuts retreated into my abdominal cavity. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuck meeeeeeeeeeee!”

Through bulged eyes I saw Juicy get back to his feet and look down at me. “Juicy,” grunt, pant, wheeze...

"Ah, shit! You okay?"

One last groan and then I whispered the words of defeat. “Go play with your fucking GameBoy.”

Monday, July 26, 2004

We Todd

I we Todd did.

If you don't understand, maybe you should call some friends and ask them what they think it means.

Sunday, July 25, 2004

Outwitted by women

I truly believe premium grade brain cells are stored within the vagina, which inadvertently leaves the rest of us without. Tonight when I got to Jazz’s place I was greeted with the usual smile and kiss and naked jiggly tits with “come hither” written across them in strawberry syrup. Okay, I’m lying about the syrup. And the naked tits.

But I was soon left to my own devices, no girlfriend, no jiggly tits, just me and a bushy plant while Jasmine went back into her bedroom to finish getting ready.

It’s at this point, all alone, when I heard a noise. It was a low grumbling of sorts, an “Oof.” What the fuck was that? I walked into the living area. Nothing. She doesn’t have any pets. Not even a gerbil. And if she did I don’t think it would say “Oof.”

Then it sneezed.

I whipped around. “Jasmine?” Silence. Do spiders sneeze?

I stepped into the kitchen and flipped on the light. Canisters filled with trail mixes, no dirty dishes, no clutter, a disregarded hand towel on the counter, ooh, a piece of gum, but nothing that goes “Oof” in the night. That’s when Jasmine screamed.

”Get off me!!”

“Jasmine!” My heart jumped into my throat and I ran out of the kitchen. I heard glass shatter and then a heavy thud, followed by her screaming, “NO!” I was practically drowning in adrenaline when I cut the corner and ran for her room. I’ll kill the motherfucker, whoever he is! I threw the door open, ready to whip some ass. “Get the fuck—“

“Oof! Oof!”

“Jay, NO!”


I had a half a second to duck and I shit you not, I used that time wisely. The biggest fucking dog I’ve ever seen in my life came at me, teeth and all. That bitch went airborne and jumped right over my manly, crouched form as I screamed like a crack whore.

“Jay, don’t let her out!”

I turned to watch the massive creature bounding down the hallway. “I don’t remember her asking, Jasmine! And to be quite honest, I wouldn’t have argued with her if she had.”

Danety, an obvious misnomer, turned out to be a 120 lb. Great Dane with a yearning for freedom. I spent the better half of an hour commanding, begging, and wrestling with this enormous beast whose mouthful of razor sharp teeth just happened to be at pecker level, in an attempt to put her back into her sanctuary: the now nookie-free master bedroom.

“Why don’t you just-“

“Jasmine, please. I got this.” Damn women and their bright ideas. Why didn’t she tell me she was dogsitting in the first place? This was all her fault anyway.

Danety shoved her ass in the air and crouched onto her front elbows, taunting me. I dragged, pushed, and almost lifted. Nada. I was occasionally treated to an enormous wet tongue to the cheek but that bitch had made her decision. I had been outsmarted by an animal that rolls around in road kill.

Exhausted and defeated, I let Jasmine in on the bad news. “I’m sorry, Jazz. There’s no way I can get her back in there.”

Jasmine made a kissing sound that brought Danety to attention. We both looked down the hallway and watched Jasmine throw something into the bedroom. “Go fetch!” she said.

Danety trampled over me, a montage of knees, elbows and toenails all finding a soft spot to dig in to, and bounded into the bedroom. Jasmine quickly shut the door behind her.

“Why didn't you do that a half hour ago?”

She put one hand on her hip and flashed me her other palm. "Because you got this, remember?"

She was this close to not getting any special Jayloving tonight.

Saturday, July 24, 2004

He loves me, he loves me not

I was scrolling through that focker’s archives and found this post. Did everyone else read this? I guess I missed it when it was first posted:

Sunday, June 20

It was twice as good as I thought it would be, and I thought it would be the most amazing thing I have ever done.

I don't have the words to do the experience justice. It was simply incredible. We jumped from about 13,000 feet, our bodies strapped tightly together. As my coach and tandem instructor, Jay, pointed out, that's more than ten times as high as I jumped from in the Army.

My harness was hooked to Jay's. We squatted in the open door, cool, almost cold wind rushing through the open cargo bay of the plane. I could not stop laughing at the joke we were going to play on all of Bloggy Land. It was the most exhilarating feeling, thinking about the fake cat fights we would come up with on our way down. We rolled out and all I could hear was the wind buffeting us. We stayed in a good hard arch and Jay did some fucking impressive aerial maneuvers whilst I screamed like a little bitch. We would spin one way, then another. Tight, flat circles. So, so fast. Flying. I started bawling for Mommy, but he brought me back to reality with a swift knee to the ass and I regained control. We were in freefall for about a minute, plenty of time to decide which of us would be the bully and pick the fight and which of us would be the victim. I didn't have any sensation from the neck up any more so I let him choose and I got stuck with the role of pansy ass victim. Fuck him, I’d do the role right. Just wait till he posts that picture of the dog with a dildo. They’ll rebell against him and I’ll get the last laugh. Gradually, the ground began to get closer as our plotting drew to an end. Jay opened the canopy at about 5,500 feet.

He was patient, just like Mrs. Fellatio, my special education teacher, as he showed me how to steer and gave me the controls. A high performance sport parachute, easily a hundred times more responsive than the Gladlock Bravos I used to jump. Pull down on the left or right handle and you are suddenly parallel to the ground, torn in the new direction. I just could not believe the speed. When I felt Big Jay poking my kidney I laughed and laughed. I never dreamed it would be as fun, as awesome, as it was. Amazing. We finalized our plan of attack while I got to play around some, zooming here and there, always drawing nearer to our Drop Zone.

After about five unbelievable minutes of alone time with him, Jay took the controls from me and brought us into the DZ. We were flying towards the ground at an incredible rate of speed, and at the last second, Jay flared, slowing us dramatically, and we touched down to a standing landing, something I was forbidden to do in the Boy Scouts, under penalty of UCMJ action. It was like stepping off a curb. It was insane. His touch was so gentle.

It was funner than fun. Scuba diving was fun. This was fun in capital letters. F!! U!! N!! I'm getting excited just thinking about him-er, I mean, it. No wonder there are so many fanatics out there who live to jump on the weekends. Well, add one more to the mix. I have already signed up for Ground School. One more tandem jump and then I’m solo. I can't wait. But first I must follow through with my plan to herd the sheep.

Hope everybody's weekend was half as much fun as mine. The combination of jumping and knowing Jay wants to be my friend puts this weekend at the top of my list.

p.s. Vader, you never once fell for it, did ya? Smart girl. Or did Jack give you a heads up we were going to do it…?

Friday, July 23, 2004

Bad dog!

"Jack, this is a fabulous party. Thank you so--oh, my! Is that your dog?"

Thursday, July 22, 2004

On the J-block

So I’m sure everyone has heard about two actors being fired from my favorite television drama, CSI. Jorja Fox and George Eads apparently argued their contracts, wanting an increase over the $100,000 per episode, 24 episodes per season. Now, if they want to argue their pay, hey more power to them. I’ve got no bones with that. But when Eads came back and said, “Oh, um, naw man, I just overslept. Come on, now!” Maybe he did. But if not, that’s really chickenshit. Be a man. Take your medicine.

Lance Armstrong won again today, increasing his lead to over 4 minutes. He was particularly pissed today after a “fan” spat on him last Saturday. Apparently that’s considered sportsmanship. Can’t beat the motherfucker fair and square? Spit on him. That’s okay. He was taken care of later that day by another “fan.” U.S.A! U.S.A.!

Some rich bitch housewife at Tar-zhay yesterday refused to remove her DL from her wallet so the clerk could compare her signature with that on her slip. She’d apparently failed to sign the back of the credit card. After a lengthy debate, he finally called in management who backed him up (good for them) and told her to take it out or leave empty-handed. She ripped it out and threw it at the boy. She told nobody in particular that the last time she took out her DL the clerk at that store forgot to give it back to her and she had to drive all the way back to the store to get it.

It’s your driver’s license, you arrogant bitch. Your DL. Your responsibility. Your fault. Shut the fuck up, sign your damn credit card, show the kid your DL, and TAKE IT WITH YOU WHEN YOU LEAVE. She needs her ass packed into a crate and shipped UPS to the Ukraine, no return address.

Speaking of the Ukraine, Chernobyl is now offering tours for those of you feeling a little too fertile. Or perhaps you’re bored with the standard two legs, two arms, one head variety of newborns and want to spice things up a bit. Nothing like a two headed mongoloid to impress the coworkers.

“Holy mother of Jesus, Frank, did you see the eyeball on that kid?”

Not to fear. Your tour payment includes one free scan for radiation at the end of your journey. At least that way you won’t be surprised down the road. Ever see Silkwood?

That's your news around the world in 80 seconds on the J-Block.

Wednesday, July 21, 2004

Little girl lost

As you can imagine, I grew up listening to such artists as Garth Brooks, Alan Jackson, Brooks & Dunn and local boy George Strait. I rarely get more than entertainment out of a song because I think of them as commercial art; something made to be sold. I recall a song released by George Strait back around, I don’t know, ’95 maybe. It was called Baby Blue. Loved it.

Today a prospect came into my office upon referral. She was a highly educated widow in her late 50’s, a full blood Cherokee, carrying two PhD’s and enrolled in medical school. Her name is Jenifer, odd I thought considering her heritage, but I shit you not. One “n” not two.

I asked Sarah to pick up some lunch and bring it back since Jenifer arrived just after noon. Over lunch I asked her why on Earth she decided to go back to college after 30 years to be a pediatrician. She reached into her purse and pulled out a sandwich bag with an assortment of nuts and bolts in it. She told me in early 1986 she was in a car accident that was so severe her spine was screwed back together. After the hardware was removed, she put it in a baggy to keep with her at all times to remind herself of how far she’s come.

I asked her, “So why a pediatrician and not a surgeon?” I’ll do my best to write down what she said by memory:

“When I was at Baylor Medical I shared a room with a 13 year old girl. Her name was Jenifer, too, and we both spelled it with one ‘n.’ I would sing whenever I was down and she used to tell me her daddy sang to her, too, and he was good so I’d sing whatever she wanted to hear. It made her feel better, listening to me, and made me feel better doing it.”

“Why was she in the hospital?”

“I can’t entirely remember, but I do remember it wasn’t anything serious.”

I asked her to continue.

“Well, she came and went and there were a few more people after her since I was there so long. But she was my favorite. I kept in touch with her parents and even went to visit her after I got out of the hospital. But not long after I got out, in June I think, Norma called me, that’s her mother by the way, and said there’d been a terrible accident.”

I swear to you I felt the ending before she said it. I just sat there, waiting for the bomb to drop.

“She said Jenifer was out the night before with a group of friends they knew pretty well when the boy lost control of his car.” She shook her head. “Jenifer didn’t make it.” I would have spoken but didn’t know what to say. She finished with, “She told me when we were in the hospital that she wanted to be a pediatrician. It’s just taken me this long to realize I could do that for her.”

I don’t know what set it off, but a light popped on in my head and I realized I knew who she was talking about. “Jenifer Strait?”

“Yes, sir. Oh, her daddy took it hard. Norma said they had some tough years after the accident. She said it didn’t get better until he wrote a song about her. It was called…uh…”

"Baby Blue."

She smiled and nodded. “Yes, sir. I think you’re right.”

Tuesday, July 20, 2004

Own that shit

I walked into the kitchen this morning for my usual cup of no fat, low foam, double-shot jet fuel when my BM walked in.

“What up, Jay?”

Yeah, white boy, you're cool. He presents me with the knuckle clash pose and I begrudgingly oblige. He reminds me of a dog I used to have that had been neutered but continued to hump anything with a pulse, just to prove dominance.

“Morning, boss.”

He grabs an environmentally friendly Styrofoam cup and taps the bottom while we wait for the coffee to finish brewing.

“You wired out $8 million last week.”

I knew that prick was just waiting for his opportunity to chap my ass about that. “Yep.”

“Did you lose him?”

“Yep. He died.”

He inhaled deeply, pretending to think which is something we all know he doesn’t do. “It’s important to build relationships with the heirs of your older clients, Jay. That can save your book as the clients age.”

How the fuck would he know, the pencil pushing, knuckle clashing, broker humping monger? He uses his licenses about as often as a lesbian uses her uterus. “He had no heirs. But thanks for the advice.”

Right at that moment I heard a duck quack. What the fuck? Wait, was that--oh, fuck no he didn't! Did he just fart? We made eye contact and he quickly looked away. You raunchy motherfucker, don’t fucking stand here and float an air biscuit and then pretend it never happened! At least claim that shit, bitch! If you're gonna say it loud, you better fucking say it proud.

He cleared his throat and quickly walked out, coffee-free. I had to leave just to catch my breath. I never went back in for fear of residuals sprayed on the cabinets. To hell with caffeine. I was awake.

Monday, July 19, 2004

Damn silent buzzers!

When I was a kid my old man picked up a part time job at a local retail store for some extra Christmas cash. He’s always been good with his hands, as I’ve mentioned before, and was the on site Fix-It guy. They used to tolerate my presence when he’d bring me along with him, dogging his heels and completely enthralled with his endless wealth of fix-it knowledge.

In the stockroom was another separate, fenced-in stockroom with an electromagnetic door where the high-end electronics were kept. A camera was aimed at the door where a telephone hung beside the handle. To get in you grabbed the phone, looked at the camera, and asked security to let you in. Security verified you visually, pressed a silent button that temporarily switched off the magnet, and voila the door opened with ease. As long as he was pushing that button, you could open that door.

One evening my dad got a call from the store manager that the door wasn’t locking, anyone could walk by and pull it open without Security clearing them. Dad told me to wash up and jump in the truck and we headed up there right away as requested. I followed him to the 57 Lockup where he looped one finger through the handle and the door opened as smooth as butter.

“Looks like the transformer blew. I got a spare.” I followed him to the loft, which was really just a room accessible via ladder where he hid parts and tools so people wouldn’t walk off with them. He carried the transformer over to the electrical room and stared at the rainbow assortment of wires. My old man is colorblind, but you’d never know it by his handy work.

He switched out the transformers, holding alternating wires together to match them up and make sure he was tying the right ones together. The two of us walked back to the 57 Lockup and he looped a finger through the handle. Again, the door slid open. “Shit. Must have my wires crossed.” He walked back to the transformer, me in tow. He pulled off the caps and untwisted the wires, holding them side by side again trying to differentiate between shades of gray to get the colors right this time.

We walked the long distance back to the stockroom and when my dad reached for the door I hoped for his blood pressure's sake it would stick this time. No such luck. The door breezed open and my dad swung it back shut. “Dammit!” This time I had to trot to keep up with him as he bent his head down and stalked with determination back to the electrical room. “Must not be the transformer.” He unwired the new one and put the old one back in place, a bead of sweat dripping off the end of his nose. For the first time he asked me, “Boy, are these the same color?” I nodded and he twisted them together, dropping the other transformer back into a box and sighing deeply. He checked the other connections, tinkered with some shit that meant nothing to me and mumbled something like, “That should do it.”

Once again, we headed to the 57 Lockup. I held my breath, my own heart pounding, fully aware of my dad’s reaction if that door came open. This time he grabbed it with his whole hand and jerked, throwing it wide open effortlessly. “FUCKING SON OF A BITCH GODDAMNED DOOR!” He flung the door shut so hard it slammed and bounced back open again. About that time the security phone rang. My dad turned and looked at the camera, aware Security had just seen him throw a fit. He answered it, not even trying to hide his bad attitude.

“Yeah?” he shouted into the receiver.

“Robert?” I could hear the man say.


“Are you going in there or not?” the voice asked.

He looked down at me and I could see the dawning of realization. "What are you talking about?"

"Hell, I keep seeing you walk up so I’ve been hitting the button, but you never walk in!”

Sunday, July 18, 2004


We have a wholesaler who reminds me of Michelle Pfeiffer. She’s blonde with legs from here to there, always dressed sharp as a tack and has a wit that doesn’t mess around. She’s a rep for a mutual fund company I won’t mention (AIM) and comes by my branch once a month. Her products are strong, stronger than they used to be at least, and she knows them inside and out. She’s more than easy on the eyes and likes to host golf outings for those of us who invest with her.

The problem is she thinks her body is a selling point. She walks in my office, never asks first, and plops her pristinely manicured thirty-something ass into a chair across from me. Then she assumes the position. Both elbows hit my desk and I’m treated to a magnificent view. Big smile, flirty eyes, nice rack, the whole nine yards. She’s divorced and has never dated a broker, or so she claims. So obviously she’s not interested in me socially, she’s merely using her tits to make a sale. I will gander her goodies, oh yes, but I will not be duped into buying her products.

This afternoon Jazz and I went downtown to a place called The Aquarium. It’s filled with sharks, rays, ‘cudas and numerous other fish in a walkthrough acrylic tunnel. They also have a restaurant that offers a meal and a movie. I suggested we grab lunch there and watch an episode of Flipper on the big screen before we head home. Jasmine went to the restroom and I walked up to the bar to order a couple of cokes, which for you Yanks does not necessarily mean I ordered two Cokes. While I waited I heard, “Jay? Well, hello!” I turned just in time to see Michelle coming at me with her arms extended.

I don’t care who the hug-ee is, if you’re out with your lady and another very attractive woman approaches for a hug you’ve got two options: dodge or punch that bitch in the mouth. Otherwise, you might fuck up your nookie supply for the rest of your relationship. As level as Jasmine is, I was not about to test her understanding by letting her walk out of the restroom and find me with my arms wrapped around another woman, this one in particular whose reputation Jazz is very familiar with. I chose to dodge.

She touched my hand, I moved it to my hip. She touched my forearm I scratched some pretend dandruff. She stepped closer, I coughed, spraying her with my germs. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Michelle. I’ve had this gross lung thing.” Quick thinking, witty boy. She stepped around me, grazing my other arm with her breast. Oh shit, bitch, off with thee!

That’s when I glanced over Michelle’s head and saw Jasmine leaning against the wall across the room, her arms crossed…smiling. She was watching me suffer and enjoying every damn second of it. Michelle turned to order an ice water with a slice of lemon on the side, not in the glass, please, and small cubes if you have them. I gave Jasmine the big eyes which in any language means, “Help me!” I saw the flash of teeth when she laughed and went into the movie room, stranding me on Octopi Isle to fend for myself, surely a test of some sorts I was destined to fail.

I managed to escape and finally go about my business. I asked Jasmine on the drive home why she didn’t rescue me and mark her territory. She said, “And ruin her fantasy?”

See, that’s the kind of twisted shit women do to each other.

Saturday, July 17, 2004


I found this political quiz online.  It takes maybe 1 minute and gives you a pretty picture at the end and a label you could probably live without.  It determines where you land in the political arena.
And the survey says.......   

Centrists favor selective government intervention and emphasize what they commonly describe as "practical solutions" to current problems. They tend to keep an open mind on political issues. Many centrists feel that government serves as a check on excessive liberty. 
Now wasn't that enlightening?

(Have you wished Aimee a Happy Birthday today?)

Wednesday, July 14, 2004

Creativity abounds

Glossary of terms

This afternoon a spy told me there was some shit going down in the streets. Filled with tombstone courage I decided to head downtown and check it out. That’s when I ran into a cluster fuck of rimrods. A soup sandwich apparently pissed off a pork sandwich carrying some heavy heat and a chip on his shoulder. From where I stood I could see the cop was a little badge heavy and I decided it might be safer to watch from a distance. Apparently there’d been a set up to eye the young cop as he did a buy and walk from this worthless sack of shit pumping on the corner. He must have been told not to drop the perp because he was making every effort to control the situation.

Something went awry when a group of soldiers unknowingly walked through the hot spot. Confusion erupted and the order was given to drop them all, particularly the cherry because nobody likes a fucking cherry anyway. But in the chaos a five jump chump got cocky and went too far. Bacon streamed in from all directions as glocks were drawn. A cap here, a cap there, here a cap, there a cap, everywhere a cap cap. Old MacDonald had a fruit salad that impressed even the deployment queen, which was clearly a man but I don’t think anyone was paying particular attention to that small detail as the hulling was going on.

I ran across the street to aid in controlling the situation by applying a facial stun maneuver to several studs standing nearby. They were bystanders but fuck it, I was riled up by all the action and after my long hump I didn’t want to take on the entire cluster fuck of cherries, soup sandwiches and pepperoni.

Suddenly, one of the legs shouted out, “Who the fuck’s got the paper?” We all stopped fighting for a moment and looked around, shrugging into each other’s blank stares. Then someone else said, “Where the fuck did the guy with the nose problem go?”

Ah, shit! Amidst the chaos the pumper had apparently fled the scene in a slick that landed a block away and nobody noticed. As it began to take off every one of the ham sandwiches put in some trigger time during downtown’s first run and gun. I stepped over the DRT stud that I’d been hand jobbing…er, uh…hand maneuvering and decided this whole day was ate up and not worth salvaging. I jumped in my BUFF, cleared myself for takeoff because I have that power, and flew home.

Pedal to the metal

John Deere, my ass. When I was a kid about two acres of our land had been cleared years before. Neglect allowed it to be taken over by the ants, underbrush, pine saplings and the sewer trolls I was certain lived within. Money was tight and my old man wasn’t about to waste a nickel on a fancy ass tractor, hell no. Besides, it would just get bogged down and die in that freaking wilderness.

Across town, all 7 miles of it, someone had a 1969 Suburban for sale, $300 and no engine. Dad had the Midas touch, though. He towed it home, red rags tied to the bumper with big white letters on the back windows that read “IN TOW.” I watched him pull that behemoth around into the back yard where it lived while he dropped a V8 into it.

The Suburban had been black in its hay day, but had since worn down to the primer. On the inside it had one single seat, the driver’s seat. All of the others had been ripped out, literally. That bitch had big gaping holes in the floorboard where rust and abuse gave way to an open view of the ground. After fucking with it for about a week, my old man came in the house and yelled, “You kids wanna go for a ride?”

Well, hell yeah! He jimmied the back door open and let us jump in. We were short enough to stand upright in the back, which was the coolest shit I’d ever imagined. He got in and cranked her up, smoke pouring in through the open holes in the floor and mushrooming around us. He pushed an 8-track into the player and The Battle of New Orleans rattled from the cheap speakers he’d wired to the door panels. In 1814 we took a little trip…

“Hang on, back there!”

I swear that motherfucker hit the gas and never looked back. But not toward the street, he went right into the backyard. It was the most awesome shit I’d ever seen. He drove blindly into the brush at what I swore was the speed of sound. Eight foot saplings vanished in one jarring bounce. Weeds five feet tall disappeared beneath the Suburban, never to be seen again. Smoke and dirt commingled into a magical cloud of poisonous fairy dust all around and I was exhilarated beyond my wildest imaginations. And probably high from the fumes.

We fired our cannon til the barrel melted down.
So we grabbed an alligator and we fought another round.
We filled his head with cannon balls and powdered his behind
and when we touched the powder off, the gator lost his mind.

I couldn’t see fucking shit out the front window, just weeds and trees and the occasional jarring explosion of dirt as my dad slammed into massive fire ant beds as tall as the grill, those biting bastards scattered to all hell. Shit shot up through the holes in the floorboard, slapping my legs, as we bounced from one end of that fucking jungle to another. My sister cried, but I cared not. We were 4-wheeling it freestyle, baby! Every time he got to the end of his row, he’d whip that fucker around, slamming us up against the glass, and then he’d floor it again. Yeehaw!

It took less than 15 minutes to clear the entire two acres at the rate of speed he was going. When we were done he pulled up to the back of the house, killed the engine, and for the first time looked back at us. “Yall all right back there?”

My sister was still whimpering, for whatever reason fearing for her life. I on the other hand, had just experienced a life altering event. For the rest of my life, I would aspire to drive like my old man.

We climbed out the Suburban and took a gander at it. She was covered in ants, dirt, weeds and pine sap. Her engine was ticking and hissing and finally heaved and sputtered and jerked and twitched and then went still.

She never moved again. The weeds eventually grew up, into and around her. She’d become an icon, and later a VIN when my dad needed to put us on his auto insurance under a dirt cheap vehicle. Yep, white trash I ain’t, but hillbilly I don’t deny.

Hup 2, 3, 4. Sound off 3, 4.... Hup 2, 3, 4.
Sound off 3, 4.... Hup 2, 3, 4

Sunday, July 11, 2004

Booty call

I’m sitting outside with my laptop surfing the web because I’m wicked cool. I think this weekend took more out of me than the week preceding it. Out of the blue my ex-girlfriend called Friday night wanting to come over. Yeah, when monkeys leap from my anus. I told her to go fuck herself in a polite way, “No. Go fuck yourself.”

My ex, let us call her Glenn Close, dialed my cell 8 times Friday night. She was wasted and probably horny and willing to settle for this here “commitment-phobic asshole.” I kindly explained to her that I was otherwise occupied and simply could not be of any help to her by saying, “Look, you pretentious whore, I wouldn’t fuck you again if you had your mouth sewn shut and your ass in the air.”

She understood such obvious logic, sharing her sentiments in the form of, “I hate you, you arrogant prick! I hate you! You’re afraid of a REAL woman! You can’t control me!” Fucking drama majors.

I respectfully snapped my phone shut, double checked my locks, armed the system, prayed to Allah, and went back to bed, thankful I did not have a bunny to boil. At 1:35am Glenn called for the last time, letting it ring only once. I stared at it like it was a opossum (that o is silent, folks) playing dead, but sure enough it didn’t ring again. I slept with one eye open, expecting to see a silhouette in the window holding a knife ready to plunge it into me.

Saturday, Jazz came over for most of the day. She was here when once again I got a call from Glenn. It was 9:30 and I’d lost all tolerance. I snapped it open and answered with, “What do you want?”

She was crying and replied, “Jay, they arrested me for DWI last night!”

I laughed so fucking hard. “Is that why you only let the phone ring once that last time? Because the cops were on you?”

She started bawling, “Yes! It’s not funnyyyyyyyyy!”

I was still laughing. “I'm sorry, Glenn, you're right. Here, this should help: Grow the fuck up and don't call me again.”

I had already shared my previous adventure with Jasmine so she understood what was going on. She was very cool about it, I knew she would be. It was like I’d just told her about some political ad I’d just seen. She shrugged it off and moved on to the next topic. Damn it’s great to be with a real woman for once.

With her permission, I am referring you to the first sentence of this post. I have nothing more to say. Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.

Saturday, July 10, 2004

Crotch monkeys

Wal-Mart is the white trash Field of Dreams. If you build it, they will come. My boycott against Wallyworld began 2 years ago. They keep a greeter at the entrance who is generally in his 70's and whose pride is so beaten down he's accepted this job as how he'll finish his life. As I was walking in one beautiful, muggy as fuck day I saw a typical trailer park couple walking out. The woman had one tooth, which was one more than her dirty, stank-ass common law husband who was pushing the buggy. They went through the detectors and the buzzer sounded with an overly pleasant voice, "I'm sorry, we have obviously failed to remove the security device from your purchase." The old greeter stepped forward, his hand in the air to wave them down. But rather than pausing to clear up the mishap, the woman covered a powerdrill in the basket with a bag and the two rushed out of the store.

The old greeter stopped and shrugged and went back to his post beside the buggies. Now I'll be the first to admit it, I have a temper. And at this point it went off. "Is there no security for you to call?" He shook his head. "So you just let them run out?" He nodded and replied with, "I can't chase them down myself, son."

He had a point. Wallyworld apparently cared so little about theft their own security device took blame for failing to remove some damn tag, then they placed 70 year old men on guard with no back up security. That was the last time I stepped foot in a Wallyworld...until this morning.

The Target is 10 miles away from my house, right next door to Wallyworld. But a few weeks ago another Wally opened just a mile away. I was pissed off when I heard, certain it would bring its white trash following in tow and drag down my property value. But this morning I was out of shaving cream and felt it wasn't worth the drive for a can of Gillette. I decided to give them another chance.

I grabbed my can, sensitive formula because I'm a tender sort of guy, and went to stand in line. The couple in front of me guessed it. White trash. He was wearing clothes he'd obviously changed oil in weeks ago. I'm sure if he stepped out of them, they would have stood beside him. She was about a size XXL wearing a M. Her midriff shirt not only left nothing to the imagination, but it will infiltrate my nightmares. Her shorts were so far up her ass I could see the fur on her crotch monkey. I had to turn away before my Wheaties came a'calling, only to find myself barraged with slurping sounds.

Oh, dear God, please don't let them be going at it in the check out line. But the scattering of pig brain cells in my head insisted on seeing some possible porn and I turned back to them. AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!! My eyes, my eyes! Oh shit, make the burning stop!!! He's LICKING her, aw, FUCK NO! He had grabbed a slab of meaty loving hanging over the top of her crotch monkey shorts and was slathering her neck and face with his skoal covered tongue.

I tossed my can of shaving cream into their basket and walked out, unable to confront them on any level. I fucking hate Wal-Mart. It was worth the drive to Target to stand in line behind a soccer mom wearing too much jewelry.

Friday, July 09, 2004

Damn, dude died

Occasionally Sarah's kindness suprises me. I have a client in his late 90’s, a widower. He does nothing all day except watch CNN and Fox News, then call me in a panic if something he owns is mentioned. Every day at the close he calls Sarah and asks her for the closing values of 17 different stocks he’s holding in his IRA. Oftentimes he’ll call during the day and get the Hi/Lo and the current trading volume. The man hasn’t made a transaction since right before the Bull ended over 4 years ago. He’s high maintenance with no real payoff other than simply having management of the assets.

Monday he drove Sarah nuts, calling every few hours for quotes and to preach. These last few years have been particularly tough for him, watching his account decrease. Every day he calls for the balance of his account, to the penny, then calculates the closing prices vs. shares to be sure I’m not stealing from him. On top of that, he’s hard of hearing. “HI, MR. BLEVINS! YES, SIR, I CAN GIVE YOU THAT QUOTE. VRTS WAS UP 5% TO CLOSE AT $17.80. NO, $17.80. NO, 80, 8-0. YES, SIR, $17.80. WHAT’S YOUR NEXT STOCK?”

Tuesday he didn’t call. Sarah was elated. She had a pile on her desk waiting to be processed from some Schwab accounts I brought in, mostly joint and individual accounts but also a few 529’s which Sarah tells me are a pain in the ass. I always feel bad when I ask her to bring in 529’s.

Well, Wednesday rolled around and still Mr. Blevins had not called. That was odd. I selfishly appreciated the opportunity to get my work done without the lengthy, long-winded interruptions. You see, Mr. Blevins is a PhD in Theology with a wealth of knowledge and nobody to share it with. Anything and everything occurring in the Middle East is of interest to him. Once, just to be ornery, I told him I was atheist. Didn’t matter. He kept right on about the “Godless murderers who blow themselves up” and then he started in with the scriptures.

Reluctantly, after a two day hiatus, I became worried and called his home. No answer. I looked at Sarah and I knew she wasn’t going to let me give up.

I called his CPA who then called a friend who then called the next door neighbor. I found out an hour later that the next door neighbor went in to find Mr. Blevins dead in his recliner, mouth open, half empty Coke can on the TV tray, and CNN blaring loud enough to be hear out at the street. They think he died Monday after he talked with Sarah.

He was worth over $11 mil with me. The old fart probably had millions with Merrill, too, since I was never able to get him to bring it all over. He had no family. Obviously no friends who called him regularly. And no will.

I thanked Sarah for her persistence and told her she was the only person to notice him missing. She went home crying.

Thursday, July 08, 2004

Porn o'Plenty

Every Wednesday when I leave work, one of my co-workers always says to me, "What is it tonight, Jay?" Then the burden falls on my shoulders to entertain the motherfucker with my creative genius/internet ripoff of an authentic porn flick title, or make one up. After a while, my stingy collection forced me to do the latter. Here are some of the titles I have given. If anyone has anything new to add, I would appreciate it. I'm starting to scrape the bottom of the barrel.

The Daily Grind
Princess Mononookie
Good Will Humping
Loin King
Beaver and Butthead
Moulin Spooge
Hooters & and the Blowjob
Tig Bitties
Differing Strokes
Full Ho's
Inspect Her Gadget
The Spooge-itive
Twat Lies Beneath
Children Of The Cornhole
Boyz With Tha Wood
Cooch Almighty
The Italian Blowjob
The Whole Nine Inches

Wednesday, July 07, 2004

All in the family

Jay’s Party would consist of me and Princess Mononookie if it weren’t for each of you. So to show my appreciation I have found a little sumpin’ sumpin’ for you. I know this isn’t everyone so if you’re upset that I accidentally left you out, I’m honestly very sorry. If you’re pissed off that I left you out, lick my left nut and try commenting more often so I remember you.

The Dave
Dark Angel
The Gooch

Tuesday, July 06, 2004

Jay threatens national security

Secret Service has no sense of humor. Today I took Jasmine to this high end, classy-ass establishment called Fuzzy's Pizza Parlor. As I’m unloading a $20 onto the clerk I see a man in a dark, three piece suit step up. It’s July, 157 degrees outside and 212% humidity. Who the fuck couldn’t figure out that little secret?

SS Agent Dipshit was at least a half foot taller than I am, forcing me to suck in like a bloated cock (rooster, not dick). He pretended not to notice, but I know he did.

He ordered a Coke, making an obvious scene of scoping the joint which consisted of me…and Jasmine. When he reached for his wallet I saw his piece riding his ribs just as he glanced my way to make sure I understood. I considered whipping his ass right there just to show him I wasn’t scared, but out of respect for the US government and the fact that I like my balls on the outside of my body, I let him be.

I grabbed our salads and pizza and headed back to the table just as a second agent, SSA Dillweed, came in and joined him. Two more dark Suburbans pulled into the lot and backed into their spaces. The front passenger door opened, not the back, and President Bush stepped out. H, not W.

Old Georgie Boy walked in, bypassing the register because I’m sure somehow I’m paying for this elaborate meal, and took his table in the far corner right in front of the window. SS sat a respectful two tables away, eyeballing me as if Osama bin Laden was going to jump out of my ass any second. Someone brought Georgie a Greek salad, a slice of pizza and a Bud Light in a bottle.

Out of the deepest depths of stupidity, I started whispering to Jasmine all of the things I could do at that moment to get myself shot. You know, just for fun. Kids, don’t try this at home. Over the course of our meal I say to her:

1. Point at the President with my hand in the shape of a gun and yell, “Bang!”
2. Start screaming “By Allah!” as I run toward him with my arms out in a “choke hold” format
3. Hit the tile and stealthily belly crawl across the wide open, empty restaurant floor
4. Whip out Big Jay and piss on his shoes….from 10 feet away
5. Tell him I voted for Perot
6. Say loudly to Jasmine, “When I say “now” I want you to dive under the table. Ready? NOW!”

That’s as far as I got in my creative brainstorming before my tax dollars were put to use as SSA Dipshit walked to my table and said, “Sir, I believe it is time for you to leave.” Which is just fancy government talk for, "Out, bitch."

We went quietly, but you let me catch that steroid-eating, brick-shitting motherfucker at the IHOP someday and I’ll show him who’s the bitch.

Saturday, July 03, 2004

Mob boss

I wasn't going to post anything else for a few days, but this is great. I got it off Seeker's blog. You'll have to check his out, it fits him.

Personality Test

My results:

Wackiness: 40/100
Rationality: 60/100
Constructiveness: 50/100
Leadership: 70/100

You are an SRDL--Sober Rational Destructive Leader. This makes you a mob boss. You are the ultimate alpha person and even your friends give you your space. You can't stand whiners, weaklings, schlemiels or schlemozzles. You don't make many jokes, but when you do, others laugh out loud. They must.

People often turn to you for advice, and wisely. You are calm in a crisis, cautious in a tempest, and attuned to even the finest details. Yours is the profile of a smart head for business and a dangerous enemy.

You have a natural knack for fashion and occupy a suit like a matinee idol. Your charisma is striking and without artifice. You are generous, thoughtful, and appreciate life's finer things.

Please don't kick my ass.

Naked threat

I was 24. It was Saturday night or Sunday morning depending on how you look at it. I came staggering through the door, stumbling in the dark over shit I knew hadn’t been in that spot when I left, like the couch and television. “Fucking-A, who the fuck put that there!” I fell into the shower, ripping the curtain down but not giving a damn where the water went as long as it rinsed the smell of second-hand cigarette smoke out of my hair. When I lathered up I considered giving Big Jay a tug, being as how he was all slippery with soap now, but the tequila had killed him. He was dead, aimed at my feet and ignoring my prompts. Worthless fucker.

I rinsed off and stumbled out of the tub, tripping over the shower curtain. I’m sure had I been sober the cold ceramic tile against my nuts would have meant more to me, but at the time I only remember thinking, “Damn. That’s sorta cold.” It took some effort, but I dragged my wet ass to my bed, which was nothing more than a mattress and box springs stacked on the floor against the wall. Oh yeah, I was impressing the honeys with that love nest.

Sleep gently drifted upon me like a 747 whose engines suddenly shut off in mid flight. Within seconds I was spread eagle on my back, mouth open, sheets sticking to my worthless hide, and rattling the windows in a blissful drunken unconsciousness.

Shortly after, I’m disturbed when my neighbor downstairs slams his front door. I ignore it and try to return to my dream before Demi changes her mind. Only this time my neighbor’s girlfriend starts in. I try to ignore them. “Stay, Demi, stay. Want a spanking?” But before she can beg me to smack that ass I hear, “Where the fuck have you been? Were you with her?”

I shake my head and squint in the dark, desperately trying to tune out the fight downstairs before Demi’s panties come back up. I turn onto my side and shove the pillow against my head, no help. Fifteen minutes later I hear him yell that he’s going to kill her if she doesn’t shut the fuck up. Hell yeah! No one would miss her ass. I’d help him bury the body if he’d give me a few hours to sober up. I would hate to blow chunks at the gravesite, DNA and all. Then I hear her yell, “She fucked you, didn’t she? DIDN’T SHE?!” and glass starts shattering.


I get out of bed and march straight down to his apartment. I can hear the shrill bitch through the door when I bang on it. He jerks it open with, “Who the fuck--” He stopped and stared as if we’d not been through this song and dance at least a dozen times before.

“Either kill that bitch, or I’ll fuck you myself! GOT IT?” He didn’t have to respond, I read the shock in his eyes. That's right! Fear me, motherfucker! I marched back up the stairs, scratching my nuts along the way when I realized…I never put any underwear on.

Friday, July 02, 2004

Fuck anonymity

It's July 4th weekend. I've decided to fuck anonymity and post a few pics of various shining moments in my life. I'm heading out, yo. "Drunk guy takes a piss on the street corner and his buddy says, 'Why didn't you do it in the alley?' The drunk shakes it off and says, 'Does this look like a fire hose to you?'"
Don't kill anyone/get anyone pregnant.


This is in California with some friends. That's my ex-girlfriend on the left, under my arm. She lived there. Not in California, between the 3rd and 4th ribs. I'm so glad I let her dump me.

This is me with Jeff Probst. He and I are so fucking tight I thought he was my ex-girlfriend for a while. Notice how Jeff is speaking to me without actually looking at me...almost as if he's not really speaking to me at all. But that's not true because I wouldn't be nearly as cool if I'd just been some jerkoff who slid along the rail so my buddy could snap the shot as if I were a part of the conversation. And what the fuck is up with that mullet I had? I remember getting dressed that morning thinking, "Jay, you da man!"

Through grit teeth and a fake smile, "Honey, will you stop taking pictures for fuck's sake and sit the fuck down?" And yes ladies, if you fly with Jay, you fly coach all the way!

"Mom, I'm tired, starving, thirsty, dirty, and four hours from finishing with two hours of sunlight left." And her reply, "Hush up and smile, Jay."

This is Sugar. She used to be a quarter horse. She ran so hard her nose bled every time, but never won a race. I'd never seen a horse try so hard in all my life. She lives with my old man, still.

Uncle Ray. He's a cranky old fart who never married. Can't figure why. He eats ranchero beans every day. Do you know what ranchero beans do to the digestive system? Yeah.

Weezer and Dash. Dash is the mom, she's the one in my face. Weezer is more timid and observant. Great damn dogs. Not like those pussy bitches with painted toenails and ribbons in their ears. These pups earn their keep.

Thursday, July 01, 2004

Someone's at the door

Guess what tonight is?

All the way home I was singing a little tune. I did a jig once I got in the door, "It's porn night, it's porn night!" This past week has been a little more stressful than usual, I was eager to blow off some steam, or what not.

I set the mood, because nobody can seduce me better than me. Every light in the house went on. Women like it dark so we don't know they jiggle when we're fucking them. Men like it bright, so we know they jiggle when we're fucking them. It's a sign of our power, to make it all move around. Sometimes, when I'm fucking and I'm trying to think of anything other than the fact that I'm fucking in order to prove my stamina I sing the Jello song in my head, "Watch it wiggle, see it jiggle..." Regardless, it's difficult to find the Rewind/Play buttons on the DVD remote in the dark so the lights go on.

I fix a scotch, no ice. Can't have cold fingers, ya know. Grab my trusty towel and giant-sized pump bottle of Lubriderm and lay it all out on the coffee table. What shall it be tonight? I slide out the drawer of DVD's, all the way out, to see the collection hidden in back. Aha! Princess Mononookie. Chinese food, it is!

Chapter 1 sucks, so I immediately skip it. 3, 4 & 7 are pretty good. While it's gearing up I take off my shirt. Can't risk staining a work shirt, ya know. I no sooner get my hand on my fly when the doorbell goes off. Fuck!

I look out the peep hole. Holy mother of - Jasmine!

I'm standing behind my door, half naked, porn already playing on the 52" SONY in Hi-Def, towel, lotion, scotch, FUCK!

In five seconds I undo an entire day's planning, throw the towel on my bed, toss the lotion bottle behind the couch, turn off the TV, and yank open the door.

"Jasmine...Hi!" Heart pounding, breaking a slight sweat along the brow, trying not to pant,...

"Mind if I come in?"

I step back. "Absolutely, come in." When she wears heels she's as tall as I am.

"Am I too late?"

At that point I realize I forgot to put my shirt back on as she looks down at my awe-inspiring six pack. "I'm sorry?"

She laughed. "Jay, we've worked together for two years. I know you." She kissed me and said, "Tonight is your porn night. We gonna do this or what?"

Sweet Jesus..."I think I just did."