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Is That a Canteloupe on Your Back, or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

Well, hey there, people. What’s shaking, playahs?

(That’s me being all ‘street’ and shit. Word, yo.

Except I don’t think you’re really ‘street’ if you put ‘street’ in quotes every time you use the word ‘street’. So basically, I’m not ‘street’ at all. I’m just a goober.

Sometimes, I wonder why I even try. Poopstain. To your mutha.)

Anyway, first off, I’d like to thank the nice folks who chimed in on my last post to say they’re glad I’m not dead. That’s cool — it really means a lot to know that there are people out there who feel just an eensy bit better about the world knowing that I’m not lying face-down in a ditch somewhere with a dent in my skull and my pockets turned out. Sort of the opposite feeling I get at family reunions, you know? Or work. Or waiting in line at the bank. Or on the phone ordering pizza. Or… well, ever, really. So, it’s special. So, thanks.

(And I’m kidding — I’m not quite that paranoid. Not yet, anyway. Sure, I peek over at the guy in the car next to me at a red light to see if he’s looking at me, and I check my soup at restaurants for any obvious globs of spit, but really, those are just precautions, right? Perfectly normal. I’m sure everyone does those things. Always. Ever.

Hmm. That didn’t even convince me. Bitches. Eh, screw it. I’ll just keep checking under the bed and in the closets before I go to bed at night, and pretend we never had this conversation. I can’t trust you people, anyway. I know you’re all out to get me. I’m watching ya.)

Anyway, it’s good to be writing again. Even if I’m just making shit up as I go along, and making myself seem even more certifiable than usual. That’s cool. Most of the job interviews I’ve ever had went pretty much the same way. And let’s not even talk about first dates. Dude. Thank god I’m married now — I used to come off like the damned Boston Strangler on first dates. Only creepier. Not cool.

(Though I guess it’s better than being known as the Boston Chicken-Choker. I’m not sure anyone’s ever held that title, but it’s certainly worse. Maybe we can get that started — give it out as an award, or something:

‘And now, it’s the Fourth Annual Boston Chicken-Choker Award ceremony, with your host, Peewee Herman. And special musical guest Michael Jackson. Take it away, ‘Wee!‘

Um, yeah. Maybe not. Anyway, just a thought. You see the ridiculous shit that builds up in my head when I don’t write for a few days? Eek.)

All right, where the hell was I, anyway?

Oh, right. Nowhere yet. Still getting started. Poop. Well, let’s see. How about this — last time I was stuck for something to talk about, I pulled out a boob story. Not a particularly good boob story, mind you. Actually, it was pretty creepy and icky and squeam-inducing.

(Come to think of it, is ‘squeam’ a word? I mean, certainly, we all know what it’s like to feel ‘squeamish’, but other than that, is there any love for ‘squeam’? You never hear of people ‘getting squeamed’, or ‘doing some squeaming’, or ‘making sweet, sweet squeam together’ in the back seat of a Honda. That seem odd to anyone else?

No? Okay, fine. It’s just me, then. Back to your program, already in progress. *sigh*)

At any rate, this story isn’t quite so bad. It’s still not a great boob story — mainly because it’s not an illustrated boob story. Any boobophile worth his or her salt will tell you that the real key ingredient in any good boob story is a well-placed illustration or two. Something that really captures the action, makes the reader think he’s right there. Like, right there. Possibly even saying, ‘Brrrrrrrritsky!‘ Riveting stuff, that.

So, sorry to disappoint, but this isn’t that kind of boob story. I apologize in advance. But, on the bright side, it does involve me, and my wife, and our bed. And that’s about as steamy as it’s going to get, I’m afraid, so let that combination seep into your dirty little minds for a few minutes before we get to the boring reality part.

Okay, you good? Done conjuring up that visual? Oh. I see. Eyes still rolled back in your head, eh? Yeah, you’ve got just a little bit of drool there… no, other side… yeah, that got it. I’ll, um… I’ll just wait another minute. Take your time. No rush.

Finished now? All right, then. So, here’s the story, and it’s bound to disappoint after all that, but hey — this is my life. What the hell’re you gonna do, eh?

So, I toddled off to bed pretty late the other night. I was up working, or watching TV, or — probably — working to get this damned computer working again. Anyway, it was maybe two, three in the morning — my wife had been in bed for at least a couple of hours, and was sound asleep. I tiptoed in, trying not to wake her, and slipped into bed beside her. She was rolled onto her side, facing me, so I decided to give her a quick hug before snuggling down for the night. ‘Cause I’m a romantic mother fucker that way, all right? Don’t be a hater.

Anyway, I leaned over and put my arm around her and gave a little squeeze. But something didn’t feel quite right. That’s when I realized that I wasn’t holding her side, and that she wasn’t completely turned facing me. She was actually lying more on her back, and I’d basically just reached over and copped a feel. Honked a hooter. Mangled a melon. Let my fingers do the nipplin’.

Well, first off, I was a little embarrassed, of course. I mean, really — we’re married and all, but how rude, eh? She’s lying there, sleeping peacefully, and here I come, charging in like a rhino with a stiffy, grabbing breasticles all willy-nilly, without even so much as a ‘How you doin’?‘ I should at least buy her dinner first, right?

Of course, never mind that I really didn’t mean to be groping in her pumpkin patch, like frigging Lunus on Halloween night — it’s the appearance of things that I was worried about. And I half-expected her to shake herself awake and say, oh, I dunno, ‘Can I help you with something?‘ Or maybe ‘Not tonight; I had a headache when I went to sleep three hours ago, so step the hell off.‘ Or even ‘What, are you trying to dial in Radio China? Unhand my tit and go to sleep!‘

(Which is just ridiculous, frankly. Honestly, who says, ‘Unhand my tit!‘ nowadays, anyway? I think that sort of thing went out of style with the whole ‘damsel in distress’ thing. I’m pretty sure you’re obligated to use words like ‘knave’ and ‘verily’ anytime you use ‘unhand my tit‘ in a sentence. I’ll have to look that one up.)

But none of that happened. As a matter of fact — and pay attention, because this is where the story gets good, at least if you’re me, which none of you are, so really, you can go back to only pretending to pay attention at this point — nothing happened at all. She didn’t smack me, or say anything, or even move. I’d like to think that she let out just a little ‘Mmmmmmm…‘ — you know, in a sultry kind of lippy-licking way — but… no. She didn’t. I’m completely making that up. Would’ve been cool, but no. I can’t back that up.

Still, the fact that nothing happened is pretty cool, if you think about it. Really, this tells me one of two things — either she’s a deep enough sleeper that a little bit of boob-batting isn’t going to wake her up, or she was awake the whole time, or woke up, and completely let me get away with it, maybe because it seemed accidental. Which it was. This time.

But either of those two explanations opens up some very interesting possibilities for experimentation on some otherwise boring night. I’m still mulling over how I’ll distinguish between the two hypotheses. If I can find some other way to determine she’s asleep one night — like whether she pees if I dip her hand in warm water, maybe — then I can reach in for a little diddle-diddle-diddle to see whether that wakes her up. Or, if I think I can get away with ‘accidents’, I could try bumping into her in unexpected and erotic ways all over the house. Who knows where the limit is on that front, eh? I’m gonna have to find some excuse to stop wearing pants, if I really want to put that theory to the test. And you can bet I’ll be working on that.

So, there you have it. Not a boob tale for the ages, but at least it was a true story. Parts of it, anyway. I do go to bed late sometimes, and my wife does have boobs. So it’s plausible, at least. And that’s the best I’ve got for you right now. It’s just good to be back, and good to be writing. And yes, thank you again, good to not be dead. You kids have a groovy Friday, will ya? I’m out.