Basting Ladle
Who will operate the basting ladle?
I have become aware that my recently acquired vegetarian lifestyle has sapped the pigment from my skin. This truth became self evident last night as I stood beside my gay friend, Skiver. Skiver is a window into the bizarre world of hair “product”, 6000-thread-count bed sheets and wall mounted lube dispensers. His Midwestern white-boy roots are well camouflaged behind a polished “mo” persona. From a distance, the first thing you notice is the crispy Caribbean tan and photoshopped teeth that luminesce with a brilliance not seen since the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty of 1996. Competing with that kind of perfection has never crossed my mind. It would be a waste of time anyway. The genes that drive a man towards the opposite sex are also responsible for Old Spice, Haggar slacks and NASCAR. Skiver knows things. I called him from the dressing room of a clothing store to verify that my choice of shirt and pants would not spoil the pictures on my wedding day. Jilly was standing next to me in the dressing room. She wisely abdicated her womanly authority in deference to the fashion sense of a homo. Unfortunately, the fruits from Skiver's tree of knowledge have not always been particularly helpful. For better or worse, I know what CBT stands for, which will come in handy if I’m ever offered a 50%-Off coupon for Cock and Ball Torture. Skiver gets a kick out of seeing me cringe and I am not alone in that respect. Even years after the incident, there is significant residual trauma from his “hide the banana” trick. Skiver had made an unsolicited announcement that he was born with no gag reflex. I was not there, but I was informed by reputable sources that those present were unanimous in their desire to change the subject. By all accounts, the banana disappeared down his gaping maw like a rat down a sewer pipe. Our friend Oz is still not able to talk about it. I believe she is suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Back to the point, the tan. I can read fine print through my eyelids. I look like the x-ray dude eating lunch in the 8mm films they used to show in 9th grade health class. I am thinking the unthinkable. I’m going to pony up for a few tanning sessions. I’ll call Skiver tomorrow and find out where the hell to go and what to do once I get there.
I have become aware that my recently acquired vegetarian lifestyle has sapped the pigment from my skin. This truth became self evident last night as I stood beside my gay friend, Skiver. Skiver is a window into the bizarre world of hair “product”, 6000-thread-count bed sheets and wall mounted lube dispensers. His Midwestern white-boy roots are well camouflaged behind a polished “mo” persona. From a distance, the first thing you notice is the crispy Caribbean tan and photoshopped teeth that luminesce with a brilliance not seen since the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty of 1996. Competing with that kind of perfection has never crossed my mind. It would be a waste of time anyway. The genes that drive a man towards the opposite sex are also responsible for Old Spice, Haggar slacks and NASCAR. Skiver knows things. I called him from the dressing room of a clothing store to verify that my choice of shirt and pants would not spoil the pictures on my wedding day. Jilly was standing next to me in the dressing room. She wisely abdicated her womanly authority in deference to the fashion sense of a homo. Unfortunately, the fruits from Skiver's tree of knowledge have not always been particularly helpful. For better or worse, I know what CBT stands for, which will come in handy if I’m ever offered a 50%-Off coupon for Cock and Ball Torture. Skiver gets a kick out of seeing me cringe and I am not alone in that respect. Even years after the incident, there is significant residual trauma from his “hide the banana” trick. Skiver had made an unsolicited announcement that he was born with no gag reflex. I was not there, but I was informed by reputable sources that those present were unanimous in their desire to change the subject. By all accounts, the banana disappeared down his gaping maw like a rat down a sewer pipe. Our friend Oz is still not able to talk about it. I believe she is suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Back to the point, the tan. I can read fine print through my eyelids. I look like the x-ray dude eating lunch in the 8mm films they used to show in 9th grade health class. I am thinking the unthinkable. I’m going to pony up for a few tanning sessions. I’ll call Skiver tomorrow and find out where the hell to go and what to do once I get there.
posted by slaghammer at 12:10 AM
2 Comments:
Just say no to tanning!
It is too late, I did it. It was an embarrassing experience.
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