Ian Anderson 5 p.m., Feb. 8
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I walk in the shadows of Golden Hill park. In the distance, an erratic whirlwind increases its velocity towards me. My gangly pup whooshes past my legs. We strut off the road to the trail that passes the stone castle. I sense movement thirty yards ahead. As we get closer to the street light near the chain linked fence, I spy two dogs. I call my clueless pup, but she is defiant. The white dog makes a bee-line for the pup. With all her might, she bolts. She escapes with whitey literally on her tail. Fear blinds her, and she slams into the fence. Whitey slams into her, which causes a second encounter with the fence, then she bounces back into whitey’s fury. A plump effeminate man emerges from the darkness to reign in whitey. He profusely apologizes as I examine the pup for damages. We chuckle at the excitement and amicably depart in different directions. Upon entering the light of my apartment, I discover missing flesh from the pup’s leg.
The stitches knocked $189 out of my wallet, and I learn about canine ass glands.
The pup and I hit the pavement to sniff out whitey. Our only lead is the vector whitey trotted home on. Due the delicateness, roundness, and old age of the master, I deduce the fat cat owns a house near the park. We canvas the backyards in the alley facing the park. A guttural bark escapes from a backyard encompassed by an eight foot wooden fence. The pup pulls the leash in terror. As we round the block to the front door, the plump man is in the driveway. I dictate the vet experience, but spare him the details of the pup’s leaky ass glands. He accepts responsibility and asks for me to return with the bill tomorrow night for he is about to jet.
I knock on Plumpie's immense wooden door. Nothing. I knock on Plumpie's immense wooden door. Nothing. I pound on Plumpie's immense wooden door. A murmur reaches my ear. I enter the unlock door with a loud “Yellow!” The murmur transforms into a distinct elegant siren. I am attracted to the dimly lit room filled with cushy furniture.
“Have a seat, I will be right there.”
I plop down in a large musky armchair that is so monstrous that I feel like I am in the Lily Tomlin little kid sketch.
Brain: let’s get our money and go. I am creeped out.....
Plumpie’s mother enters the room. A pink satin robe with small white feathers around the edges drapes her wrinkled tanned flesh. The robe stops mid-thigh.
Brain: I do not like where this is going! Penis: Hey, I am desperate.
My mouth states my case during which Momma flashes a hunger smile. Momma asks about my black eye. I explain the detailed lie I have been practicing at work. Like all the others, she is convinced. Momma rattles off the inventory of her bar.
Brain: get the money and go go go. Liver: Bourbon! Let him out. Penis: Bourbon! Let him out. Brain: ...but the destruction.
My mouth quickly tallies the poll and asks for the key to the cage. Momma turns around and bends down to reach the bourbon on the bottom shelf. Blue lines fragment the translucent skin on her legs.
During my three bourbons, Momma waits eagerly on the arm of my chair. Her flirtation is trite. I have watched enough TV to know my stupid lines.
Brain: stop reading from the script and let’s bolt. Liver: One more Penis: Just give me five minutes
Momma saunters dramatically crossing the room, pivots, and raises her flappy arms in the air and announces, “ Sweetheart, you want me to show you how it is done?” My ears did not comprehend the words, but my eyes witnessed her robe rising revealing her coochie.
We embrace and Momma gyrates. My brain gives in, and my mouth lets out a moan. She is an octopus. My back is massaged while my ass cheeks are squeezed.
I shake violently from my geriatric daze. Plumpie’s hands are squeezing my butt as he sandwiches Momma between us.
Brain: Shut the cage!! Shut the f@ckin cage!! Liver: One more bourbon Penis: Yeah, I am going to need another....