Pussy Problems

A Conversation with My Baltimore Friend Dan:
 
Dan is one of my strait-laced friends in this city, unlike some of the others I’ve written about in these posts.  As I was anticipating the arrival of some money, I began devising a budget and list of items to purchase.  Such planning is unusual for a freewheelin’ cat like myself (dude). 
 
Me:  Help me think, Danielle.  What do I need most?  What am I always bitching about not having?
 
Dan:  And I guess the more stuff you can add to that list, that’s less money you’ll end up spending on alcohol.
 
Me:  Let’s not get carried away here.  I have to allocate some money for booze.  I’m eligible for my eight-day chip today, but I sense that my liver is starting to get a little too cocky.
 
Dan:  So you just want to remind it who’s in charge?
 
Me:  Right-o.
 
Dan:  How about underwear?
 
Me:  I can go without that.  Prefer to, actually.
 
I begin to sing a distorted and unaccompanied version of Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin’.”
 
Dan:  Uh, that’s TMI.
 
 
I slam down my pen in mock indignation. 
 
Me:  Listen up, you bastard.  My mom was preggers with my sister when that shit at Three Mile Island went down in ’79, and we lived only 20 miles away.  We’re pretty sure that’s why she has three fingers on one hand, eight on the other.  Not to mention the mental capabilities of me after I’ve spent a few too many days with my Russian therapist.
 
Dan:  No, I meant–
 
It is difficult to get Dan to genuinely laugh, but I’m starting to succeed with my BS.
 
Me:  And another thing:  I lived near TMI in the 9/11 days, and I was freaked out, worried that it could be a target.  I stashed all my money in my car in case I had to suddenly flee.  Even kept some porn in the trunk in case I ended up somewhere with no women.
 
Dan:  Now that’s too much information.
 
Me:  Three Mile Island’s incident came before the genuinely serious Chernobyl, and now we’ve still got that shit going on from that Fuck-a-shima whatever thing in Japan.  The lamestream media is downplaying its severity.
 
Dan is practically a flaming liberal, so I love provocatively using right wing terminology in our dialogues.
 
Dan:  Well, let me explain something to you in terms you’ll get.  If some kind of disaster hit Baltimore–let’s say the earthquake had been worse–wouldn’t you want to be wearing underwear in case you shit yourself?  Or if you got, not piss-drunk, but shit-drunk?  It would be like an extra line of defense that could help you save a pair of jeans.
 
Me:  True, but there’s also a more likely and common scenario that makes it prudent to wear underwear.
 
Dan:  Uh, do I really want to hear this?
 
Me:  Doesn’t matter, because my sense of self-importance compels me to tell you.
 
I affected the tone and cadence of the flute-as-dildo chick from the Oscar-winning American Pie movie.  (Or was it American Beauty that was so critically acclaimed?)
 
Me:  This one time, at Giiiaaant, I had to stop in to buy some cat food.  There were like, four or five cute girls, all dressed in shorts, outside chatting.  From what I overheard, they were all on spring break from college.
 
Dan:  Are you sure they weren’t high school girls?
 
Me:  Seriously, does it matter?  They were all hot, and my body reacted in its predicktable way.
 
Dan:  Oh man.
 
Me:  Wait; it gets better.  Or worse.  I’m wearing loose-fitting pants, sans underwear, and there’s just no way for me to hide my hard-on.  Luckily, the store wasn’t crowded–
 
Dan:  So you went to the bathroom to take care of business?
 
Me:  No.  I just wanted to get in and get out, so I made a beeline to the pet food aisle.  Walk it off, you know?  I just couldn’t let my cat (Dude) down. So when I get to where I need to go for the cat food is, there’s this–I don’t know–let’s say seven or eight-year old girl right where I need to get to.  The only other soul in the aisle.
 
Dan begins to boisterously laugh at this point.
 
Dan:  Oh, Jesus Christ.
 
Me:  I’m just thinking, “If someone shows up, sees me standing near some kid with a visible erection, it’s going to look really–and I mean really–bad.”
 
Dan:  You’d be trying to explain the situation as her dad is kicking your ass because of TMI:  Too Much Inflammation. 
 
Now I burst out laughing at his turn of phrase.
 
Me:  Daniel-san, I’m going to have to run this by the committee, but I think you should get the award for joke of the day.  If they clear it, you’ll get your certificate within seven to ten business days,
 
Dan:  Whoo hoo!
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3 thoughts on “Pussy Problems

  1. The sauce at hooters tonight was called three mile island. But then I thought outloud: why not Chernobyl? And then I thought why not fukishima?

    • The former would be so outrageous, it might start a pussy riot. And the latter could inflame the Japanese to do something drastic, worse than Pearl Harbor: produce high-tech gadgets with malfunctions and glitches.

      (One of the traumas of my childhood was being unable to advance in a video game; I was always sure it was a systematic glitch.)

      And I’m sure that just its mangled pronunciation in a place with scantily clad waitresses could lead to many misunderstandings.

    • I’m sure I could think of a number of other examples, but I used to drink a very potent beer called “Earthquake.” I picked up a juice bottle with the description on the side of a “Tsunami of taste…” Just like with your question, why not products like “Holocaust Ovens” or “Slavery Chickens?”

      Of course, nothing offends me, but I look at the (real) examples I gave and think, “WTF?”

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