As I live (sleepily) and breathe (cautiously – suspicious of all these people around me with mid-summer Sars or some shit), I am coming to you live (but not fully coherent yet) from a flying cattle car somewhere over the midwest.
Either I’ve gotten fatter since the last time I flew, or these airline seats have shrunk again but my first attempt at being seated prior to takeoff was a seatbelt buckle planted firmly in my asscrack, and some poor guy having to deal with my flailing attempts at stowing my miniscule carry-on in the 6mm overhead compartment. I’m more or less situated for the duration of the flight, only my chin is currently occupying the same space as my cleavage so that I can see my laptop screen.
As if flying on these little sardine cans wasn’t already a futile exercise in patience, a pair of sorostitutes decided 5 minutes before the flight that they wanted to sit together and asked for a seat change, along with having their bags shuffled around with them. The flight is less than 2 hours, bitches. Take a seat, bust out your iPhone and play some Angry Birds or something. At one point, everyone around us was getting visibly agitated and we weren’t even away from the gate. The guy next to me leaned forward and said to his wife, loud enough for half the cabin to hear and snicker, “And you thought you were high maintenance.” Well played, dude. If you weren’t sleeping right now, I’d buy you a Bloody Mary.
So after a long night of finishing up my “Blow it out your ass” craft project, I finally poured myself into bed around 1:00 am. Five minutes later, the alarm went off and it was 4:00 am. I tell you this because it will probably explain my frame of mind in deciding to make this post this morning as I possibly embarrass my poor mother. To that end, I say to you, Mom: If you want to seek some revenge in the form of a guest blog, throw down your gauntlet.
Everyone who reads this blog, even in passing, knows that I’m a bad, bad person. As if there were any doubt, I must confess to you one of my sins: I’m poking men. Quite a few of them actually. One of whom is my mom’s boyfriend; We’ll call him Bob. Because that’s his name. To be fair, my poking proclivities are Facebook’s fault. They make it so easy to poke random people! It’s a wonder that my computer doesn’t have digital herpes!
As we’ve been in this poke war for a few weeks now, I got this text from Mom’s Boyfriend:
Bob: What would your momma think if she knew we was poking?
Me: As I recall, I asked her to pass on the message that you shall not win the war of the poking.
Bob: Hey! Nobody, and I mean NOBODY, pokes like Bob!
Me: Now, now…Bragging about your own poking prowess is like masturbation: satisfying for about 3 seconds, but wholly unimpressive to everyone else.
Bob: 3 seconds? Hell, that’s enough time to do it twice!
Me: Funny, I’d figure you need at least that long to recover, old man.
After that, I texted my mom because she gets a kick out of our wacky shit.
Me: Just FYI – I’m making fun of your boyfriend’s pens.
Me: *Penis. Funny how that’s the one word I haven’t taught my phone yet. I mean, it knows the word “fucktwaddle” for crying out loud.
Mom: Exactly what are we saying about his penis???
So I forwarded our whole text exchange. She lol’d. But Bob wasn’t done yet.
Bob: They don’t call me Bob the Impaler for nothing!
Me: What you do with your fleshlight in the privacy of your own vehicle is between you and the Washington State Patrol who pulls you over for erratic driving.
Bob: They know better – I’ll make ’em watch!
Me: Just promise me that when the scandal hits the 6:00 news that you’ll record it for the family time capsule.
Bob: Yes ma’am!
It bears mentioning at this point that Bob isn’t really a deviant (that I’m aware of. Mom, you can absolutely keep that detail to yourself. Please. For the love of …hell, anything.). He is in a profession that works in conjunction with State Patrol, so their paths cross fairly frequently, I’m sure. I do fully believe that he would probably make them watch, just for the story at the company Christmas party.
Me, to my Mom: I’m guessing he’s not home right now or he’d probably be snickering and handing you his phone after every exchange.
Me: Also added to the list of words I taught my phone tonight: fleshlight. Also, there’s a good possibility that I’ll be blogging this later.
Mom: Yeah, he told me about that one…
Does anyone hear that? It sounds like the distinct sound of disapproval over text message…
C’mon, Mom – if you can come to grips with that Thanksgiving conversation we had about spanking a few years ago over turkey, then the fleshlight joke should be a side of mashed potatoes.