Promiscuity in the morning
“Oh my, come on over here big boy. I’ve been waiting for you all night. Don’t be shy, come handle me with your oh so masculine hands an give me a big squeeze. You know you want me, you know you need me. I promise to leave you with an ear to ear glimmering smile. Good God take me you gorgeous hunk of man, take me now for God’s sake take me now!”
You’ve just witnessed how my each and every day starts. That was my impression of my tooth brush, if it could talk, and I believe mine can.
Next I’m off to the shower. I stepped out of my warm soothing rain machine on a cold wintry morning while still thinking of my superbly perceptive tooth brush. As I scurry through my vigorous toweling choreography I heard my cell phone ring.
With the morning sunlight sneaking through the shades and landing on my glistening body I cleared my eyes with my lush thirsty towel and answered it. It was my calorically over-enhanced friend inquiring one good reason why McDonalds doesn’t have the McRib year round.
After heated verbal fisticuffs about the allure of ‘givith’ and ‘taketh’ away and his inane interruptions in my life, I returned to my toweling routine and realized I hadn’t a clue where I had left off.
My post-shower dehydrating activities had, somewhere between youth and adult, become an automatism and now I have to start the whole ordeal all over again from the beginning.
Then it was time to put on my shirt, I guess (my entire universe is off tilt now). It was half on and I saw the tag in my face, DAMN IT! Backward again! Theoretically there's a 50/50 chance I’d put it on correctly but not for me, the norm is 90% backward.
Some days I just don’t have the wherewithal in me to fight it and I wear as-is. I just tell everyone that notices that my shirt is correctly positioned, and that I was simply facing the wrong way when I put it on.
Still slightly moist, I try the old switcheroo without taking it completely off. This never works out either. I end up looking like Bruce Lee Karate chopping a family of angered hornets inside my shirt, and I’m losing.
Finally I get the shirt on correct enough to continue and catch my breath. Then I proceed with my usual singing of "Old Time Rock & Roll" into the hair brush/microphone with a sincere, but overly exaggerated singer’s winced grimace pasted on my face into the mirror.
After my self-serenade it was off to my dear old friend Mr. hair dryer and ... I chagrinned;"WHAT THE! He's been replaced! By a pink one! Oh this just isn't right, I can't use this, can I? Am I so enthralled in my Neanderthal primitive manhood that I can't use a pink hair dryer! ... YES! It's completely emasculating!”
I thought “Now, where is my old black dryer, it's got to be around here somewhere? There is no way I’m using this pink feministic appliance, I'm going to demand my old friend back, no questions, just demands, there is no room for debate here!”…
So the agreement is that the pink dryer will work out just fine, I decided to grow into acceptance and give up my high testosterone mannerisms, ON MY OWN by the way!
Suddenly I have an insatiable urge to brush my teeth… Dare I think, A brush with Menage Au Trios? (photo)
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