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What can we learn about ourselves by investigating our clothes? Are well-worn shoes (our bodies’ daytime gravity buffer) an indicator of the force with which we tread the world in not just the literal, but also the, like, figurative sense? How much stock should we put in the state of our pants? Does pant status signify the extent of our sexual repression simply because it is the physical means by which our genitals are concealed? Who invented the necktie?
I asked myself these crucial questions as I posed by the pool and downed The Ultimate Margarita. I happened to be newly clad in designer dry goods, though moisture was imminent, if you know what I mean.
So this chick walks up and plants her keister in the seat next to me.
“Brother, can you spare a dime?”
It was some kind of bullshit conversation appetizer. I took the bait anyway.
“Don’t tweak my cherry. Okay, shortcake?”
She pulled out a cigarette and I lit it. I took a gulp of margarita and lit my own. I exhaled a big cloud in her face.
“Talk is a commodity; its value depends on supply and demand,” she offered.
“Well I ain’t buying whatever you’re selling, sister.”
“Oh, don’t be too sure. I know all about guys like you.”
“Guys like who? I mean, guys like what?”
I ashed in her cleavage.
“Guys who pose by pools, asking themselves all of life’s most stupid questions, getting drunk on oversized girlie drinks and praying that a broad like me will pay them the time of day. Only when we do, guys like you adjust your pose, turn nasty and need to be taken by force.”
“Now put this on.”
She clamped a collar around my neck, hitched up a leash and led me back to her pickup. She opened the tailgate and I hopped in.
Date Written: July 03, 2002
Author: Ewan Snow
Average Vote: 4.2