I shall be off the blogging circuit (well, most likely, unless I can find an online computer), until Wednesday next week, or possibly Thursday, because I'll be doing Colorado-related things in Colorado. What kind of things? I'm not sure. But, tentatively scheduled are:
Golfing: I golf, and there are golf courses in Colorado, so there will likely be golfing.
Hot Air Balloon Ride: This will be a first for me. I have never before willingly crawled into a basket and allowed a billowy bubble of fabric filled with hot air to elevate me to suicidal heights. So, it should be interesting. Incidentally, should you find yourself in the mountains of Colorado next week, and you see a hot air balloon overhead, get out of the way, lest you be showered in a spray of Ryan Rhodes vomit.
Metal Detecting: I have a metal detector, and there are old building sites all over the place just screaming to be explored. If you don't hear from me in a couple of weeks, it's because I found a cache of gold coins hidden underneath a dilapidated outhouse. Either that, or I fell to my death from a hot air balloon basket.
White Water Rafting: Not for sure. I did this once before and found it to be much like canoeing, except with a raft filled with yuppies who didn't know a paddle from a tree trunk. These people got scared every time the raft shifted even a little. You can about imagine how they reacted when we actually encountered rapids and were forced to paddle. I think my father and I did all the paddling for 10 people. Morons.
Sleeping: I'm a big fan of this, and since I'll be on vacation, I intend to indulge in copious amounts of it.
Eating: When I'm not sleeping, I plan on eating.
Running: I will exercise caution here, because the last time I ran in the moutains, I did not take into account the conspicuous lack of oxygen present at 12,000 feet. I got lightheaded, hallucinated that there were leprechauns in the ditch, and then toppled ass over teakettle into the ditch, gasping for air and feeling monumentally ill. I won't make the same mistake this time. I shall take things easy.
Take care all, and I'll see you next week.
UPDATE: Just running an experiment here to see how many hits I can garner by writing the name Katelyn Faber several times, alongside Kobe's accuser and Kobe's victim. Sooooooo. Katelyn Faber, Katelyn Faber, Katelyn Faber, Katelyn Faber, Katelyn Faber, Katelyn Faber, Katelyn Faber, Kobe's accuser, Kobe's accuser, Kobe's accuser, Kobe's accuser, Kobe's accuser, Kobe's victim, Kobe's victim, Kobe's victim, Kobe's victim, Kobe's victim, Kobe's victim.
Heh.
Aw, that's just mean. Go here for pictures of Kobe's accuser, Kobe's victim, Katelyn Faber.
The assault upon the banality of the Friday Five forges on, as Erik continues to provide the Cheddar X revolution that will one day poke a fat, gnarled toe into the vagina of the Friday Five. Did I just type that? Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. . .
1. What are your top three favorite smells?
I'm partial to ass, specifically my ass. Okay, just joshing with ya. I love the smell of Japanese curry, which makes me salivate like Pavlov's dog no matter how full I may be. The smell of my parents' house in the morning when I visit them, a mixture of coffee, bacon and, I suspect, my father's breath; makes me feel 12 years old all over again. And, I LOVE that first day when I can actually smell the onset of spring (for a Minnesotan in winter, this is the equivalent of an orgasm after five months of celibacy).
2. What scents on men/women do you find most attractive? And what scents to you absolutely despise?
I'm really not attracted to any scent on a man, although the smell of Right Guard spray always reminds of my days playing football in high school. As for women? Let me see. My girlfriend wears this lotion consisting of watermelon and cucumber that smells like candy and makes me want to dive in and munch her box until my tongue is numb. Also, back in my college days, when I frequented an establishment where the women, strangely enough, went without clothes and snaked around brass poles, there was one woman who wore an unknown fragrance that always made my blood temperature rise eight degrees and made me want to fuck anything with a heartbeat. As for bad odors, I can't stand B.O. I know, I know, it's a totally natural smell, but I don't give a shit. If you stink like B.O., action should be taken immediately to rectify the situation.
3. What was your worst nickname growing up?
I had so many nicknames growing up, you probably wouldn't believe them. I would have to say that "Spaz" was the one I disliked the most, and I'm happy that it hasn't been invoked since 10th grade. I've also been called "Freak" for as long as I can remember, and back in my wrestling days, I was known as "Frog" due to my long legs. Other longstanding nicknames include "Mule," which I won't talk about here (although I still use that nickname as my handle for NTN trivia), and "Boxles," which was a short-lived nickname I had after an unfortunate scenario involving soiled boxer shorts and a glove compartment.
4. What nickname did you want to have?
Through my blog and my newspaper column, I'm on a one man crusade to become known as "a smoking hot specimen of male hunkiness" or ASHSOMH (which kind of sounds Jewish, now that I say it out loud). It would also be cool to be called "Thunder Hammer," but that's not too likely. Nicknames, usually, consist of one syllable, so I guess I'd be happy with "Thor," or "Zeus," or "Carl." Actually, scratch "Carl" off the list.
5. What was the last trick you pulled on someone?
I love the blazin' buffalo wings at Buffalo Wild Wings (caution: they're ass-puckering hot). I've been eating ass-puckering hot food dating back to my year living in Tokyo, so I can handle them with relative ease. Most of my Minnesota "meat and potato" friends, however, regard the blazin' wings with the same trepidation as a steer facing a red-hot branding iron. So it was, when I snuck a blazin' wing to my buddy, Jim, his reaction was one for the record books. He gladly snapped up the wing, scarfed down 3/4 of it, and then the heat hit him, and then his eyes started watering, and then he started drooling uncontrollably, and then he drank two pilsner glasses of beer so fast you'd think he was trying to win a contest. It was a grand old time.
6. What was the last trick you had pulled on you?
Well, let's see, I was told once that I had a bright future in journalism, and then I got my first reporting job for a daily newspaper making a smashing $6 an hour. That was a good fucking joke. I really haven't had any pranks played on me with regularity since college when my former roommate used to spritz his damned pepper spray all around my room, causing me to hack and wheeze and wonder what the hell was the matter with me. Ah, but those were the days.
UPDATE: Holy crap! When Anna over at Primal Purge links to you, you get a lot of fucking page views in a very short period of time. I respect and admire that. I would go masturbate right now, but I'm all exhausted from yesterday still.
Many of the great ideas of mankind came about through arguments and discussions, intelligent and insightful back-and-forth between two or more people determined to reach a conclusion on a topic on which they disagreed. And then someone came along and chucked a grenade and spoiled everything.
According to a Reuters news item out of Belgrade, An elderly Serb ended a heated argument with his neighbor by lobbing a hand grenade and severing the man's arm, Tanjug news agency said Tuesday.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "now, where can I pick up a nice crate of argument grenades?" Okay, you're probably not thinking that.
Now, I know firsthand what a grenade can do, owing primarily to the fact that I, in an act of stupidity not soon to be surpassed, detonated a grenade in my backyard, with me standing not even four feet away, when I was at the ripe old age of 21. I emerged from the horrifying incident remarkably unscathed, albeit with a ringing in my left ear that didn't subside for four days.
Milan Djokic, 70, was charged with attempted murder and illegal weapons possession after attacking Slavko Grujic, also 70, in the northern town of Zrenjanin Monday.
Given my grenade experience, I can tell you, with a certain amount of authority, that a grenade is NOT an effective argumentation device. For one thing, a grenade, upon detonation, is extremely loud, so you may miss out on a key verbal repost from the person you're arguing with.
DJOKIC: Now, see here! Your stance on the current Iraq situation is dead wrong! You are completely missing the point of my meticulously thought out argument, and I simply must protest with the obligatory toss of a grenade. *throws grenade*
GRUJIC: No, no, no! It is you who are mistaken, and your argument is deeply flawed. You see, if you simply look at Iraq, you'll see that. . . *Boooooom!*
DJOKIC: Wait, wait! What did you just say? I missed that last part! The exploding grenade completely drowned you out. I'm sorry, could you repeat yourself?
GRUJIC: My arm! My arm! My precious arm! That grenade you threw blew off my arm!
DJOKIC: No, it was not the grenade that blew off your arm. Rather, it was the large rock that the exploding grenade sent flying at you that severed your arm. Please have your facts straight the next time we decide to argue.
Grujic first caught the grenade and threw it back, but the device exploded on a second try by Djokic. Tanjug did not say what they were arguing about.
Is it just me, or does this have all the makings of a kick-ass game show?
Raylene Richards. Raylene Richards. Raylene Richards. Raylene Richards. Raylene Richards. Raylene Richards.
After a drop-dead awesome Indian meal consisting of chicken korma dipped in naan (courtesy of Rochester's India Garden restaurant), Melissa and I decided last night to go to a movie. Our choice: Pirates of the Caribbean. All I can say is: go see this flick. You'd never think it was a Disney flick, with all the killing and skeletons and bad teeth and the unknown actress who kept nipping out (Google search reveals her to be one Keira Knightly, and I'd very much like to have sex with her).
I don't normally like high seas pirate adventures, because they all seem cut from the same old boring slab of pirate stone. But, this movie was just fun from start to finish, and I'm obligated to like any movie that features a pirate crew consisting of skeletons and desiccating corpses. Trust me, you have to see the movie to understand what I mean. Oh, and the best line of the entire movie, which was apparently lost on everyone in the theater except me, was a mention of the city of Troy. "This is like what the Greeks did at Troy... Except they were in a horse instead of dresses." Ain't that the truth.
But the real savior of the movie (except for Knightly nipping out, I mean) was the performance of Johnny Depp as Capt. Jack Sparrow. It was just obvious that he had an absolute blast playing this role. You wouldn't think a man would be up to the challenge of portraying a seemingly perpetual drunk, slightly effeminate, genius pirate, but somehow he manages to do just that. Come to think of it, I think I may have been perfect for the role, but whatever.
I spent the first 20 minutes or so of the movie trying to figure out who one of the heroes was, and then it dawned on me he was Legolas from Lord of the Rings (Orlando Bloom, without the ridiculous long blonde hair and pointed ears). He did all right, but he paled in comparison to Depp. Bloom was working; Depp was having fun.
Go for Depp's acting. Go for the skeleton pirate crew. Go, go, go for Knightly's nipples. But most of all, just go. Marvin K. Mooney, will you please go now?
Wednesday is turkey and stuffing day in the IBM cafeteria, which means if nothing else catches your eye, you can load up with a heaping helping of turkey and stuffing. Today I finally realized just how awful IBM turkey and stuffing actually is.
I opted for a turkey sandwich on wheat bread, slathered with the most watery tan gravy I think I've ever ingested. The turkey, though consisting of large chunks, flaked apart like 20 year old particle board. And it was dry. Oh so dry. It was like shoving turkey flavored-sand in my mouth.
For the first time that I can recall, I had to pause while eating, because the excessively dry bolus of turkey, bread and gravy snaked down my throat at a speed so slow you'd think time had stopped within my body. And I had nothing to wash it down with. No water. No milk. No Diet Pepsi. Nothing. I just had to sit there and wait for the food wad to squish down to my stomach. It felt like ages, I tell you. Ages!
But nothing could prepare me for the stuffing, which was more or less wet bread with burnt black edges, spiced with something that tasted suspiciously like cinnamon.
Thus defeated, I pushed my plate away and came back to my office. I'm still hungry, but I'm not THAT hungry. Yuck.
UPDATE: You know, when Michele at A Small Victory links to you, you get a lot of fucking page views in a very short period of time. I respect and admire that. And now I'm pondering masturbation of some sort.
Where would I be without Jill Nelson lobbing up big soft squishy logic softballs for me to hit out of the park? It seems every time she takes out her pen and writes something, it just screams to be ripped apart. She's a cliche-ridden gasbag who is convinced America is on the verge of goose stepping Nazism. She parodies herself. But, don't take my words for it, take her's:
NEW YORK, July 15 — Each day, it seems, another American soldier is killed in Iraq, even though the war has long "ended." It's difficult to imagine the anguish of the parents and loved ones of these young men and women who have died after major military combat was declared over, especially since the house of cards that the Bush administration used to justify the invasion is crumbling like a sandcastle during high tide.
Ooh, that's evocative. Which is it? A house of cards or a crumbling sandcastle? Doesn't this woman have an editor? Let me just take a moment to shred her opening statement. She uses a lead salvo invoked by every anti-war, Saddam-ain't-so-bad, quagmire gloom and doomer. Namely, a U.S. soldier is killed every day in Iraq. Well, let's look at the numbers here.
Let's see, a conservative estimate puts 100,000 U.S. troops in Iraq. Let's say one soldier dies each day, a victim of a disgruntled AK-47 weilding jihadist. That puts the liklihood of daily soldier death in Iraq at .0001 percent. That doesn't erase the tragedy of a soldier's death, far from it. But, this is a hot post-war zone we're talking about people. Just because the war itself is over doesn't mean the troops can lower their weapons, kick up their boots and take things easy.
YESTERDAY, GEORGE W. BUSH, looking more than ever like the befuddled Alfred E. Newman of MAD magazine fame, insisted that the intelligence used to justify the war was "darn good." This in the face of clear evidence that his allegation in his State of the Union message that Iraq had tried to buy uranium from the African nation of Niger was untrue, and that high-ranking members of his administration knew it.
If that's all the Democrats have to work with in 2004, they're pretty much fucked. The quote little Jill is talking about is: "The British government has learned that Saddam Hussein recently sought significant quantities of uranium from Africa." This is an intelligence report that Britain still stands behind. So how, exactly, did Bush lie here? Anyone? Bueller? And you just gotta love her vague "high-ranking members of his administration" allegation. Does she mean the member who actually doesn't exist, or someone else?
And where are the so-called "weapons of mass destruction"? Where are the jubilant, "liberated" Iraqi citizens dancing in the streets? Where, oh where, is Saddam Hussein? Or Osama bin-Laden for that matter?
I wonder, sometimes, what the nay-sayers will say if a truck full of anthrax is discovered buried in Iraq, when their WMD carpet is yanked out from under their feet. What spin do you think they'll use. I guess we'll have to wait and see. Excuse me, but how long, exactly, are the Iraqi citizens supposed to be jubilant and dance in the streets. You'd think they'd get awfully tired feet after two fricken' months. They may not be dancing around any more, but neither are they swarming over our troops like locusts. They're giving us the time and benefit of the doubt that we'll get things up and running. Not in Jill's mind of course, but there's little room left in Jill's mind for anything other than her virulent hatred of all things Bush.
In spite of the administration's arrogant assurances that the war would be short and convincing, that the Iraqi military would immediately crumble, that "shock and awe" would allow U.S. and British forces to fight a fairly bloodless war, what has happened?
Oh, I know! I know! A fairly bloodless war! Next question please.
From the onset of this corrupt and opportunistic military action there has been Iraqi resistance. And now that the official, brought-to-you-by-the-hawks war of the Bush administration has ended, the real war has started. This is the guerilla war, no matter what the administration wants to call it, in which attacks against U.S. facilities and troops are constant and casualties higher than during the "real" war. This is the war without a Big Bad Wolf named Saddam Hussein to point to and declare the bogeyman, a war led by Iraqis who, much as they despised Saddam, resist the invasion and occupation of their country.
Yeah, a real sophisticated guerilla war they have going on there. Top of the line guerilla tactics. The nutballs who stormed Columbine High School were more organized than the rabble taking pot shots at U.S. troops in Iraq.
Yet it seems that when it comes to the war in Iraq and the Bush administration, Americans insist on pulling the covers over our heads and living in the midst of a fractured fairy tale, steadfastly refusing to wake up and recognize the very real nightmare that surrounds us.
Um, no, Americans are content and realistic enough to realize that rebuilding Iraqi infrastructure and trust, while sweeping away Ba'ath party clingers will take a little while.
Even in the face of new evidence every day that the administration knowingly used faulty intelligence, lied about Iraqi resistance, was determined to invade Iraq come hell or high water, and manipulated public opinion with lies about "weapons of mass destruction," much of America seems undisturbed.
Yeah, I'm undisturbed because blanket statements like that one are so flawed they border on lies themselves.
No matter that hundreds of American, British and Iraqi lives have been, and continue to be, lost. No matter that no one has any idea where Saddam, the alleged object of our wrath and invasion, is.
Wait a minute, I thought WMD was the object of our invasion. I'm so confused now.
No matter that many Iraqis feel less safe now living under the regime of their American "liberators" than they did under their homegrown dictator.
Here's where the tinfoil hat-wearing nonsense comes in. In Jill's convoluted world, things were somehow better under Saddam. Brianna. Banks. Brianna. Brianna Banks. Banks. Stormy. Sexy. Ashley. Robbins. Sandra. Shine. Sandra.
As Americans, we should all be casting a cold, critical, and unrelenting eye on George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld, Colin Powell, and all the other members of the Bush Gang who lied us into this quagmire.
Yes! She said it! Quagmire! I can't believe it took her so long. I was beginning to get worried. Quagmire my ass. Now, Germany's push into Russia in WWII; that was a quagmire. The decade-long fuck-fest known as Vietnam; that was a quagmire. Iraq after four months? Quagmire my ass.
I understand that many Americans are frightened and overwhelmed, and that our government has made it clear that to question policy is to be at best unpatriotic, at worst treasonous. Yet we cannot let fear stop us from our obligation to participate in democracy.
I know that when I question our pathetic homeland security, the pathetic economy, and everything else that's pathetic about Bush and company, I'm worried the men in black suits are going to show up and clamp on the leg irons and drag me away to a dark room with needles and red hot pokers. If this truly was the rabid police state of fear and intimidation that Jill likes to make it out to be, then her sloppily written tripe wouldn't be gracing the pages of MSNBC.com now would it.
It's clear that Iraq is not the end of the administration's objectives. They are already roiling the waters against Iran and, more cautiously, North Korea. As they do so, our ability to bury our heads under the covers and ignore what's going on steadily decreases.
Did you know we're roiling the waters against Iran and North Korea? I must have missed that week. As for the Jill Nelson cliche-watch, please note the "bury our heads under the covers" bit. Could this woman PLEASE have an original thought!
Where is the little child of the fairy tale brave enough to see the truth and declare, "The emperor has no clothes!" Probably in hiding. If he appeared in this American town square, the people would likely stone or bludgeon him to death.
No, we'd probably just ignore him.
Now this is just too damned fun! Via Michele at A Small Victory, I was steered toward a little bit of tomfoolery being conducted by Dave Barry. What sort of tomfoolery, you ask? Well, how about this:
MEANWHILE, however, this blog has a little project to amuse anybody who is interested, involving a wonderful site called www.poetry.com, which was brought to this blog's attention by alert reader Laura Stark. Aspiring poets can go there and submit poems in the poetry contest, and maybe even -- incredibly -- have their poems selected for inclusion in heirloom-quality-bound volumes that are -- What are the odds of this? -- for sale!
So anyway, this blog was just thinking how interesting it would be if a whole bunch of people submitted poems that contained a certain key poetic phrase. To see how it might work, this blog submitted a poem under the pen name of "Freemont A. Harkins," entitled: "A Sad Day." Here's how it goes:
A Sad Day
i am sad, so very sad
the tears run down my nose
it was a happy day until
the dog ate mother's toes
You can see this poem at www.poetry.com, using the search engine to search for "Freemont Harkins." Wouldn't it be fun if a lot of people submitted poems using a Pen Name that began with "Freemont" and incorporating the phrase, "the dog ate mother's toes"? Then we all could search for poems written under the first name of "Freemont" -- currently, this blog is the only one -- and see how creative everybody was!
I'll probably be submitting poems as the day progresses, because I'm a time-wasting nutball like that. Here's my submission list:
Dog Day Afternoon
by Freemont Freemonton Freemontery
All dogs, they say, will have their day
They'll get their day in court
But Rex, I think, will have to pay
And his life may be cut short
He looks at me with mournful eyes
And I know he's deeply sorry
His tail is tucked between his thighs
Like an arm of calimari
I can't forgive Rex for what he's done
And this, I think, Rex knows
Though I'm sure he thought it was quite fun
When the dog ate my mother's toes.
Book Critique
by Freemont Erting Magoo
I recall with youthful glory
The book "Where The Red Fern Grows"
But I think it would improve the story
If a dog ate mother's toes.
Foul Play Is Afoot
by Freemont Xavier Mongrove
An autopsy today revealed something that almost no one knows
Apparently, the coroner says, the dog ate mother's toes.
Loss of blood was the cause of death, from gaping wounds on mother's feet.
All because our beloved spaniel thought her toes were doggy treats.
All ten digits were gnawed away, and her corns were gone as well
There really isn't much more to say. What more is there to tell?
Why, oh why, did our dog do this thing? Why did mother have to die?
We'll have to put our dog down now because, well, you know, eye for an eye.
As our dog is laid to rest, we'll pet him, and we'll weep,
To soften his journey into that eternal doggy sleep.
And perhaps he'll meet our mother there, and her feet will be intact.
There will be no signs whatsoever that her toes had been attacked.
Mother and dog will dance and play through Heaven's golden gates
And the dog will eat only the best Purina on golden doggy plates.
>From this happy dream I just awoke, and then my blood just froze
Because I think it's truly chilling that the dog ate mother's toes.
Dog. Interrupted.
by Freemont Galveston Montreax
I came across a ghastly scene
Now emblazoned in my mind
A scene so nasty and so mean
There is nothing of its kind.
Bo, my dog, my faithful friend
A companion through the years
Went way way off the deeper end
Went crazy between his floppy ears
In the kitchen the deed was done
This tale I tremble to relate
My mother's toes, they numbered none
I had arrived too late.
The attack was swift, because Bo is quick
He moves as fast as lightning goes
And though it may make readers sick
The dog had eaten mother's toes.
I startled Bo, as he dined,
gnashing away at toes four and five
He growled at me, but ran away
Old Bo had lost his mind.
Mother limps now, with a cane
And I never found old Bo.
He's out there, somewhere; a dog insane
With a taste for human toe.
She was crying.
I never know how to approach a crying girl. It's much like coming across a $100 bill. You don't know what to think, and you look around for a bit before moving towards it.
It was early in the morning, just after 5:30 a.m. It was one of those extremely rare mornings when I actually had to prepare the meat department for the day, which meant uncovering the meat case and filling up any dwindling stock. It was boring, monotonous work, and it was made more distasteful because I knew, in three hours, I would have to take off for my first class of the day: philosophy, I think, or maybe it was Vietnam history. I can't remember. Let's just say it was a sucky class and leave it at that.
Normally, only one person was required to prepare the meat counter in the morning, but because Christmas was fast approaching, the grocery powers that be decreed that two people should be on hand to prepare the varied departments. This meant that one person would do all the work while the other person would sit around and nurse a hangover. It was far more efficient that way.
That morning, my meat department teammate was Stephanie. I'd always liked Steph. She was short and cute and bubbly and fun, and we even had a few summer journalism classes together. We had one of those friendships that was based almost entirely on ripping on one another. She'd call me a dick, I'd call her a bitch, she'd slug me in the stomach, and I'd parry with a punch to her shoulder, and then we'd retreat to separate corners to nurse our respective wounds.
A little blonde unit, Steph had a tomboyish side to her, which on her it was an extremely attractive quality. She could toggle quickly between being "one of the guys" to being coy and teasing and sometimes even sultry, albeit sultry in a Steph way, which meant sexy mixed with a punch to the gut. Trust me, it was cute.
I'd never seen Steph cry though. She was just one of those stoic girls who could lose her hand on the meat band saw and just suck it up until the ambulance arrived, and she'd probably finish cleaning the saw before it even got there. So, seeing Steph cry, with her hands buried in her face, only about a foot away from the deli slicer, made me pause.
On the one hand, she may have been hurt by the slicer, which was entirely possible because I'd lost part of the tip of my finger on the slicer about a year before, and trust me, I wanted to cry. On the other hand, this was Steph. Steph didn't cry. She was incapable of crying. Plus, crying was not allowed in the meat department. The meat department was the manly department. It was secretly understood that crying was banned. Besides, tears made the T-bones taste salty.
I approached Steph tentatively, scanning for blood and accessing my dusty brain archives for my dormant first aid training skills. As I got closer, however, I realized she wasn't injured, at least not externally. All I could think to do was put my hand on her shoulder and ask if there was anything I could do. This was an alien gesture for me when it came to Steph. I felt as if I should punch her in the shoulder for good measure.
She was startled at first, so lost in her misery that she didn't know I was there. Once she saw it was me, however, she grasped my hand in hers and started crying harder. There was no way I was going to get my morning work done at this rate. Women. Well, now she had my hand, and she was crying, and I wasn't sure why, but I was pretty much convinced it had to be a relationship issue, and I wasn't a good enough friend to sit there and listen to how her boyfriend had dumped her. I mean, come on! There was work to be done, after all.
In a move totally uncharacteristic of Steph, she went from a clasped hand to a full-fledged hug, burying her face in my chest, and I could feel her tears seeping through both my meat apron and my shirt. This girl was going to dehydrate herself. I hugged her back, while at the same time I noticed that the boneless chicken breasts really needed to be refilled. The boneless chicken breasts ALWAYS needed to be refilled. They were a popular item, particularly the teriyaki marinated chicken breasts. I'll admit it: the teriyaki chicken breasts were pretty damned tasty, but they were messy, and. . .
Steph bit me. She bit me right on the chest. Hard. Over the next couple of days, that bite would leave a nasty bruise, a purple and blue welt smack dab in the center of my chest, right over the sternum. And let me just state for the record, it fucking hurt like hell. Ladies, if you wish to hurt a man, try biting him on the chest, right over the sternum. I guarantee he'll scream bloody murder.
I shoved Steph back, and she released her mandibular lock on my chest. She looked up at me with a smile that was combined with both sadness and her trademark devilish grin. Whatever was bothering her, whatever made her cry, she wasn't going to tell me. She wiped at her eyes and started busying herself with preparing the meat case.
"That really fucking hurt!" I exclaimed, pretty much blurting out the obvious. "What's the matter with you this morning, anyway? Man problems?"
"Men are always a problem," she shot back. "And you deserved that bite because last time we worked together you squirted meat blood on my ass."
Oh. Right. Good point. Ah, meat department hi-jinx. How I miss it.
"Fine! Whatever!" I said, pretty much saying nothing at all. "Are you going to be all right though? I can cover for you if you're not up to. . ."
"I'm fucking fine," she said, dismissing me with a wave of her hand, and then she disappeared into the back storage area and I didn't see her for the next ten minutes.
I muttered as I worked, rubbing my bite wound occasionally. As much as I disliked preparing the meat department, I have to admit there was something nice about the solitude of the early morning, with only sound being the buzzing flourescent lights and the meat cooler and display cases. It was mechanical, non-thinking work, which freed the mind to think about things it wanted to think about. Strangely, at 5:30 in the morning, my mind usually only wanted to think about sleep.
I went into the big meat cooler to fetch the five gallon pail of chicken breasts we used for marinating them in teriyaki. I always thought it was funny how we used five gallon pails for marinating. Julia Child never did that.
"Sorry I bit you so hard," said Steph, who had snuck up behind me and startled me so bad I dropped the pail of chicken tits on my foot. The force also popped the top off the pail and sent a lonely teriyaki-soaked chicken breast skittering across the floor.
I studied the breast for moment, thinking it would make a nice cheap dinner for the evening if I snatched it up off the floor quickly enough. My thoughts were quickly brought back to reality when Steph grabbed at my chest. It wasn't a violent chest grab, either. It was one of those seductive hands snaking up from the stomach to the neck jobs that make me roll my eyes deep into my skull.
What transpired was the most violent make-out session I've ever had. Period. Upon the first kiss, it became immediately obvious that, in addition to be an emotional wreck that morning, Steph was also drunk out of her mind. Her tongue tasted like a cocktail mixed with a shot of Aftershock. I'd never seen her drunk before, and I wasn't sure why she was drunk, but boy was she drunk. How drunk was she? Well, she was making out with me. That's how drunk she was. Plus, she was making out with me in a meat cooler, which should also tell you something.
I've never actually tried to French kiss a mountain lion, but if I did, I'm pretty sure the experience would be tame compared to what Steph did to me that morning. She bit my tongue. She bit my lips. She bit my neck. And she bit my chest again. I wasn't sure if she was making out or having dinner. Then, she started working on my pants, and I became aware that she was about to give me a blow job.
And I stopped her.
You read that right. I, Ryan Rhodes, perhaps the biggest fan of fellatio ever to walk the earth, stopped a woman from giving me a blow job.
I stopped Steph for many reasons. I stopped her because I knew that the meat department manager was due in at any moment. I stopped her because I had a girlfriend at the time. But, ultimately, I stopped her because I was absolutely certain she was going to treat my penis like a doberman with a rawhide. Given the bruise on my chest and the blood oozing from the bite on my lip, I was not going to give Steph access to my most prized possession. No way.
That moment of clarity brought us both back from the brink of sexual euphoria, and we both realized that what we were doing was somewhat odd, and it probably violated almost every meat department-related health code on the books. Steph detached herself from me with a last bite/kiss and went back out to attempt work, although she was so drunk her usefullness bordered on zero. I managed to get everything up an running just minutes before the manager showed up for the day.
Steph left work early that day, even before I left for class. I didn't see her at work or on campus for about a week. When I did finally see her again, she was picking up her final paycheck. She had taken a different job on campus. We both pretended that the meat cooler incident hadn't happened, which was probably for the best. I saw her in class a few times, and we worked together on some projects, in addition to bumping into each other at the bars once in awhile.
I never found out what had been bothering Steph that morning, and we never mentioned the incident when we were together. I wonder sometimes now where she is and what she's doing, and if she's adopted a more non-violent approach to sex.
And I've never looked at chicken breasts the same way since.
Blow job. Blow job. Blow job. Blow job. Blow job. Blow job.
