How You Doin’ Blondie?


A Rose By Any Other Name…
April 14, 2008, 12:19 am
Filed under: Life, Men, Reflections, sex, thoughts | Tags: , , ,

Went to a strip club with my friend the other day, and when I stepped outside for some fresh air, I noticed some prick had parked his Dodge Viper right in front, in the fire lane. He wasn’t anywhere in sight, and obviously thought his car was too precious to park in the spaces reserved for us mere mortals. So I just kind of stood there and stared at the car, fuming silently. My friend was standing next to me, having a cigarette, and is apparently clairvoyant because he reached over and rubbed my shoulder while saying, “Calm down baby, just relax, don’t say anything,” (obviously his wife has made him sit through Steel Magnolias, he knows how Southern girls are). I quelled the urge to point out that the Viper parked by the curb wasn’t worth as much as any of my automobiles, and I turned to walk back inside. My path was immediately blocked, however, by a man striding brusquely through the doors wearing an outfit he purposely bought a size too small so as to showcase his physique. I took one look at the guy, and his tribal arm band tattoo, and I leaned in and whispered in my friend’s ear, “All the tea in China, that’s his Viper.” My friend rolled his eyes, kissed my mouth gently, and then shushed me; but we both turned to watch where this guy went. Sure as shootin’, Slab Bulkhead swaggered right on down to that Viper and threw a pack of cigarettes through the open sunroof. I groaned loudly and my friend pinched my ass and said “Shhh baby, watch this.” As Butch Deadlift is making his way back into the club, my friend does one of those cool, aloof, guy-nods in the direction of the Viper and says “That your ride, man?” (A  question which elicited the mother of  all eye-rolls from me, which went largely unnoticed as Splint Chesthair had obviously already made the incorrect assumption that I was one of the dancers and thus unworthy of legitimate conversation). Stump Beefknob then stopped, and without any hesitation or trepidation at all, of any kind whatsoever, replied, “Nah man, that’s my mom’s. I drive an XJ-8.”

Then he went back inside.

I waited for my friend to finish his cigarette and then we followed suit. Later in the evening, we got to talking about Dirk Hardpeck and I realized my initial irritation had been replaced with a sort of reluctant respect. The guy might have been a douche-bag, but he had the stones to admit his was driving his mother’s car. I don’t know many guys whose precious ego could sustain that kind of blow – and Gristle McThornbody made the omission in such a nonchalant, almost dismissive manner.

As obnoxious to the core as I’m sure he is; big ups to Blast Thickneck for being a momma’s boy and owning it. You go on now and do your thing, Brick Steelflex.

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