A friend of mine told me to come over to his house this Saturday around noon. He was going to be in his full on "Bar-b-Que" mode and he wanted me to be there specifically.
Because he has been aware for years that I have never met a grilled steak, slab, shank, flank, hunk, chunk, slice, cut, leg, roast, rib, breast, or thigh that could be found on any kind of critter that didn't set my gastrointestinal juices to rumbling like the Bloods and the Crips over a crack deal.
I told him that he could count on me to "hold my own" when it got down to grabbing growling, chomping and chewing on the wide variety of meats, and tasty meat by-products that he was threatening to unleash. On the mostly unsuspecting digestive tracts of his blood relations and low rent buddies.
I'm not bragging, but I have been diagnosed as being an incurable "meat-a-holic."
And I love beer! What's even better is; "Beer loves me." The fact is; "Beer loves me so much, that I never pick up beer. Beer picks me up. (It's the liquor picker upper!)
I can be moseying, or meandering my way down the highway, road, or goat path of life and all of a sudden, my forward progress is blocked by some vivaciously friendly Saint Paulie Girl.
She's holding one of those Oktoberfest 256 ounce pitchers, full of the kind of beer than goes down as smooth as honeydew vine water. And if you chug the whole pitcher at once, (and who the hell wouldn't?) it comes back up as sweet and as smooth as it went down.
Now that's beer!
I never refuse. I mean Sweet Jesus in a nudie bar! How could I?
You've seen her, I'm sure. Leaning over to pour you a taste. Filling up some "Stien-o-saurus Rex" container all the way to the top.
As you watch this wonderful sight, an even more wonderful sight over rides the "keep your eyes on the beer" part of the brain. Replacing it with commands from the "Sweet Jesus with a tittie fetish" part of the brain.
What exactly, you ask, could possibly over ride such a completely hardwired into the psyche brain command such as the "keep eye on beer" one is?
I'll tell you what! Two of the most milky white, ample to the tenth power, flawless breasts that have now poured themselves all the way to the top of her overwhelmed, and undersized blouse.
A blouse that is so low cut to begin with, that the only portion of these mouth watering perfectly fashioned ear protectors that isn't visible, is the tiny mole underneath the firm fold of her mammalian magnificence.
Not visible that is, until even the high grade steel cable straps of her custom made bra simultaneously suffer "catastrophic structural failure."
Each one of these portable suspension bridges was designed and built by some of the world's best structural engineers. Dedicated men that did their post graduate work in the field of "mega-boob dynamics" at the highly respected University of T&A. At the main campus in "Boulder" Colorado.
Alas! There are some forces of nature that man will never completely overcome.
But why oh why does this have to be one of them?
There is some good news that results from this tragic, and yet strangely wonderful upheaval.
Which is this;
It takes months, for a crack team of some the best boob men to be found anywhere, working around the clock, to build another harness, that for a little while, if she doesn't lean over, will be able to harness what is essentially unharness able.
Which is fine by me 'cause once you've seen them beauties, the first thought that runs through your head is that every one on the planet that is intent on restraining what neither God, Man, or even the "cloven hoofed one" ever dreamed of making captive, should at the exact same moment, have a fatal "accident".
And if we all stick together on the "fatal accident" story, there's no tittie hating jury on the planet that's gonna be able to prove anything!
Sure they'll suspect, but they'll be pounding sand if we just stick to the; "It was a series of simultaneous fatal accidents. It's a real shame" Game plan.
So as you see.
I've had beer. Beer has had me.
But I never pick up the beer.