Something a little unexpected came back, holy living hell.
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| SHITE. If this doesn't mess with you in a pretty major way, well, you're dead. Please accept my condolences. Credit for and story on this amazingly suggestive painting here. |
Okay then. Let's move on. Just forget about the painting. Please. The thought of you getting overly amorous with your mate and then blaming it on my blog makes me wanna throw up in my mouth. Get a hold of yourselves. We're here to talk about bikes.
And the important bikey thing I need to say is this:
Fatturday the 1st is right around the corner. We have a goodly fatbike contingent, but I know there are other Spokane/North Idaho fatbikes out pounding our local trails and tarmac on massive rubber, because I've seen them. If you are, or know of, a fatbiker in the area who might be interested in joining in, here's how to connect up: 26InchSlicks[at]gmail[dot]com
Hey! Pay attention!! Did you hear anything I just said???
6 comments:
I remember that night. She was a blonde the kind they don't make anymore. Real smart, but with a taste for smokeless tobacco. She asked me if I wanted to take a dip.
In those days I was poor. Down to my last suit. Lucky for me it was a good suit, with matching briefs. I had met a rich brunette, forget her name now, and married her. She admired my underwear.
The brunette said she needed a man to carry her money. A man with pockets, lots of pockets. Maybe I should have seen the danger and run away on my shiny wingtips. Maybe I saw the danger and said, I do.
That night was our honeymoon. Just a private party for her, her, and me. Little did we know that a weasel lurked in the shadows with oil and brushes, painting our portrait. Jimmy the Bartender, an old associate from my days in the pen, saw the "artist" first.
What you don't see is Jimmy grabbing his bat and leaping over the bar and chasing the weasel. You don't see the weasel pulling out a .32 and a badge and backing out the door with the easel under his arm saying, easy now boys. Guess the weasel got away. Guess Jimmy wasn't as tough as he used to be.
The blonde spat. Jimmy made unkind remarks about the FBI, artists, and FBI-artists. And about mimes, for reasons only Jimmy could know. The girls turned up the jukebox, got up on the bar, and did a dance they called the Zumba.
I don't remember anything more. I woke up the next morning in an alley in a city I didn't recognize. My head hurt, and my mouth was full of a big wad of tobacco. I gagged. I realized as I gagged that my underwear was gone. And my suit. And, my pockets.
Seeing that picture? I suppose you might call it "bittersweet." I moved on. I met a couple redheads, married one of them, forget which. Still looking for Jimmy.
Now I got a .32, and a badge, and a tin of Copenhagen for bait. I keep them in my manpurse.
One thing I learned. Pockets only lead to trouble.
Yeah, yeah. I know Joey's back in town. Am I what? Scared? Ha, good one. Jimmy don't get scared.
OK, maybe a little. But you know what else I am? Happy. Yeah! I'm glad Joey made it through.
I mean, Joey's the kind of player who buys size 14 shoes for size 7 feet. You gotta respect his attention for detail. Even if he can't run in those clown shoes.
I am sorry I broke a perfectly good bat. But, you really can't blame me for that night.
Joey sure had it wrong about that one in the red dress. As in "Joey you do realize you just married a she-male" wrong.
As in "Joey you realize you just married a she-male who only wants you for your pockets" wrong.
As in "Put that broken whiskey bottle down Joe-Bro, you know Jimmy-from-the-pen don't judge."
The last thing Joey would expect is that I'm still here. Still pouring. Still swinging, heh heh, my bat.
We're still here, I mean. Our bats.
Have another?
I only want to say that I did it for Jesus.
True, I saw the Jezebels for Jesus organization as my ticket out of Grinders Switch. And maybe some of the kinks need to be worked out of the Dating Discipleship philosophy.
But I truly believed in Jez4Jeez, kinks and all.
I was only interested in saving Joey's tiny little soul. I didn't care a fig about his big shiny shoes. I didn't even notice his pockets, swear to God.
I admit it was nice to finally meet a well-dressed man who could appreciate a girl with a little something between her cheek and gum.
I'd like to end with a favorite verse from the Song of Solomon, "my breasts are like two fawns, twins of a gazelle, that feed among the lillies."
God bless. Care to buy a girl a drink?
Thanks to the three of you for filling in some of the details of what happened next. I guess. It didn't play out even remotely the way it did in my imagination. OTOH, the frequency of cold showers had gotten a little intense and yes, you can prune up in really cold water if there is enough of it for a long enough time. But enough about me.
If there is one lesson to be learned here, it's that life is not always so pretty, even for the pretty people. Even though I've never been pretty, it just seems like one of those life lessons that I should know by now, considering how long I've been around. Maybe I do, but I just want to believe in something better. Or maybe, and most likely, I just like to fantasize. Whatever. It's a gritty, messy world out there and as much as I would like to deny it, I've occasionally had to wade through the kind of mud that the three of you wake up slinging on a daily basis. As a result, it's a foregone conclusion that I've snap-judged the three of you, for better or worse. In bike terms:
Joe, I'd ride with you anytime. Pretty sure that I'd come home bloody and banged up after every ride, but proclaiming each as the best ride ever.
Jimmy, the only way I'd ride with you is at gunpoint. And I'd try to stay in front of you so that I didn't go down on your trail of slime.
Cherry, in the interest of preserving my marriage, I better not compose any sentence that involves you and the word riding.
I do truly believe that the one innocent person in this whole sordid scenario is the brunette. The fact that we haven't heard from her makes me worried for her safety. She looks so vulnerable.
So she calls herself Cherry now? She musta known you'd be talking to me. And that lillies of the valley business, ha. Girl knows how to pass on a hint. That holy roller shit? Oh she'll roll you all right. Just ask Joey.
Hey, just ask me. After all, that was my money in Joey's pockets. I always knew Cherry had a thing for pockets. I know how to give that girl what she needs, and give it so she thinks she's taking it.
It is true about her, um, gazelles. I used to love to watch them leap and bound.
Let's just say that I've been on intimate terms with that Cherry since our days back in the holler. Back when I was still a he, and Cherry still gave it for free. We were in love, still are. But that was before chewing tobacco took her away from me.
Let's just say that Cherry was always the grinder, and I was always destined to be the switch. Some of us disguise our exteriors, and some of us, like Cherry, learn to hide what's inside.
I sure fooled Joey. I'm not sure why he never recognized me from the pen. Jimmy sure did, and he's never held it against me. Well, he holds it against me all the time these days, heh heh. Jimmy just thought he had to protect me. Joey got a little...excited. We were all a little drunk on Zumba and corn bourbon from home.
I shouldn't have let Cherry take Joey away after Clocker clocked him. Yeah, I thought she'd take Joey's pockets, God knows she can't help herself, but I thought she'd take Joey's tiny little heart too. Look at the way they look at each other in that picture. I thought this time might be different.
And maybe it was different. I happen to know Cherry doesn't just carry snoose in her clutch anymore. She wraps that tin in those dorky underpants I last saw on Joey.
If Joey's still alive, maybe this was a romantic film noir and not just another of Cherry's disgusting snuff films.
Apparently that's the kind of bar where you drink champagne and it tastes just like Coca Cola.
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