Monday, April 18, 2005

Troublesome Tiddies

I am the man. And it’s damn good to be the man. Saturday afternoon we picked up Kadybug and brought her to the mall to play in the kid’s area. I sent the wife away, told her to go buy some decent clothes for god’s sake, and started scoping the honeys. Oh yes, daddy found him a redhead.

I spotted her sitting a quarter way around the encircled area. I knew better than to make eye contact but she was apparently nippy and I couldn’t help myself. That’s when I glanced a few inches higher and realized she was staring back.


Hate when that happens. Why can’t women wear padded bras? It’s all their fault. Had little miss Strawberry Shortcake over there been a responsible human being she would have thought ahead and padded those sons of bitches and this shit would have never happened. It’s not my-

Oh, shit.

Dude, she’s coming over.

No fuck.

Run, man, run!

What about Katy?

She’s cute. She’ll find a ride. Get your ass up and go!

“Hi. Mind if I sit down?”

“Not at all. Have a seat.”

You’re fucked now.

Go to hell.

“I’m Rachel.”

I shook her hand, but all I could think about was what I was going to tell Jasmine when she came back. “Jay. Nice to meet you.”

“Here with your daughter?”

She flipped her hair and smiled sweetly and nearly poked my eye out with those hypothermic nipples I was trying too fucking hard not to be caught looking at.

“She’s my niece. I’m giving my sister a break.”

There you go. Endear yourself to her.

“That is so sweet!”

Now tell her it was your wife’s idea.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

Your pregnant wife.


Sweet jackass. Bail, dude. Before she comes back and you never get laid again till death do you part.

For the next 15 minutes I sat and half listened as my gaze shifted from Kadybug, the direction I last saw Jazz, and Strawberry Shortcake’s diamond cutters, which seemed to be getting larger by the minute.

In fact, I was convinced I could see them becoming more and more defined the longer I stared. Jesus Christ, is it 27 degrees in here? Those can’t be real. Do they make nipple implants? And then she said to me, “Even gold does it. Know what I mean?”

Uh oh.


Shut the fuck up. What in the hell is she talking about? “Um, no, I guess I don’t.”


Not bad, huh?

“See look.” She lifted her hair and turned her back to me so I could see the back of her neck. Umm. Hmm. “Do you see the rash?”

“Oh! Yes. Right there. Yes, ma’am. Thanks.” What the fuck?

She turned around and pulled the neckline of her shirt down to show me the top of her holyshit very creamy, smooth globe which I did not notice one damn bit where the fuck is my wife it’s about to pop out oh my god here comes Katy lady please put that thing away before you get us both shot up in here when the extremely pregnant brunette comes back and finds you oh jesus is that an areola?

“Everywhere my necklace touched I got this rash. See, right here?”

She’s gonna eat you alive. You know she’s nearby.

“That’s a damn shame. Maybe you should try sterling silver.”

Another painful minute or two passed before she grabbed for her purse and handed me a business card. I can’t even remember what she said when she handed it to me. All I knew is she and her troublesome tits could not leave fast enough.

But I saved the card. On Monday I’ll show it to Jesse and Danny. In case they, too, might have forgotten I’m the man.