Here in the US we have a holiday weekend so many won't be around tomorrow - 1st
Subject: Biker Bar Story
A drunken man walks into a biker bar, sits down at the bar and orders a drink. Looking around, he sees three tough looking men sitting at a corner table. He gets up, staggers to the table, leans over, looks the biggest, meanest, biker in the face and says: "I went by your grandma's house today and I saw her in the hallway buck naked. Man, she is one fine looking woman!" The biker looks at him and doesn't say a word. His buddies are confused, because he is one bad biker and would fight at the drop of a hat. The drunk leans on the table again and says: "I got it on with your grandma and she is good, the best I ever had!" The biker's buddies are starting to get really mad but the biker still says nothing. The drunk leans on the table one more time and says, "I'll tell you something else, boy, your grandma liked it!" At this point the biker stands up, takes the drunk by the shoulders looks him square in the eyes and says: "Grandpa, go home, you're drunk."
I'll be gone tomorrow so here ya go! (From a friend of mine)
So I've got this buddy who is dating this gorgeous, and I mean knee buckling, blood draining, knuckle biting, edema producing, GORGEOUS, very, very blonde woman. Not that there's anything wrong with blonde women per se, it's just that this particular blonde is bravely shouldering the enormous task of stereotype perpetuation and doing a remarkably credible job of it. Don't get me wrong, she's sweet, funny, genuine, sincere, low maintenance and a basically good person (did I mention she's beautiful?) plus, she's even reasonably intelligent. It's just that there are these 'blonde moments' that occur are so far adrift of acceptable behavioral norms that, if you are ill-prepared, may cause permanent psychological damage.
For instance, we were at a party recently and she was there blithely oblivious to the salivary dysfunction she was causing in the males members of our sad species. As I was talking to a couple windsurfing chums, she came up to me, obviously in a state of agitation, placed her glass of wine next to me on a table and said "Could you watch this for me Jon? This place is driving me crazy and I've got run out to my car and get off."
Now there are offhand comments and then there are offhand thermonuclear bombs. This was one of those statements that would, no matter how deeply engrossing and involved the conversation you were hitherto involved in, just stop all communication dead. No matter the subject, once she lobbed this little sound bite into the conversation all thought patterns were derailed, scrambled, energized, rearranged and refocused. In some cases permanently.
Now, I know this woman. She's not likely to utter something like "Hey, I gotta run outside and diddle. Could you make sure none of these Neanderthals steals my wine? Thanks. Ta!" Really. It just ain't her. I think. But then... Nah... but ... nah... So I valiantly stepped to the fore to protect her honor and eeked out a stammering, "Really? Is it that bad?"
She looked me straight in the eye and said "Oh god, it's horrible. I can't stand it. I've got to go get off now or I don't know what I'm going to do. I'll be back in a minute."
My two buddies looked at me, once they had torn their eyes away from her tight, sweet derriere, long, long legs, narrow waist and this walk that somehow makes it look like various parts of her body defy physical laws and only pause to obey them when the effect is precisely that which will cause blood flow to spontaneously increase in certain bodily regions in the beholder.
"Did she just..." "Nah, she couldn't... but she... did... nawww... could... ummm... go check on her... no... really? Nah..." "Errr... she... no... no... not... really? She said... harrr... aaaahh... no....umm...video?" "Garagamarrfarmalargarhaaraammmmmmblargh...."
Well, you get the idea. Suffice to say there wasn't a whole lot of coherent or even intelligible English spoken during the next few moments.
A short time later, while we were still contemplating our johnsons, she strolled back in, looking visibly relieved. I handed her wine glass to her with a surprisingly unwavering hand, despite the fact that something was attacking every ganglia in my body with a quisinart set on 'turgid frappe'. As I said, I know this woman, and I just knew that there must be, had to be, absolutely better damn well be some form of explanation or else I swore my body would be suddenly rendered incorporeal and I would collapse like a slug on a salt lick.
She took the wine. "Thanks," she said sweetly. "You ok now?" I squeaked. "Oh god yes, thanks. It must be my perfume or something because nobody else seems to be having issues." It was getting progressively worse. I was verging on implosion. My buddies were faring no better. I had this vision that the four of us would have sucked the eastern seaboard into a massive event horizon if something didn't happen quick.
She continued, "Look at this, I've got welts on my arms and legs from them. They were biting me everywhere. Thank god I had some Off in my car."
I as much felt as I heard the expulsion of air and subsequent groans from my friends. The balloons had been released, the bombs defused, the safeties securely relatched. She didn't go to get off. She went to get Off. As in Bug dope.
Between the laughs I gasped out an explanation of what she had said and what we thought it meant. She took the news gracefully, finding it extremely humorous, which did nothing to relieve the pained state of my friends. She even did the Divinyls wiggle when she said "You thought I was going to..." We all visibly flinched at that. The Geneva Convention has rules about such brutality.
I've got to stay far away from wimmen like this. Far far away. Otherwise one day they are going to have to perform an autopsy on me that will reveal a heart that cavitated itself to failure because somehow my member had suddenly engorged itself with 6 full quarts of blood.
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