I was over at a buddy’s house the other night. He and his lovely wife had invited us over for dinner. We were having a big pot of Texas chili, a big pot of pinto beans cooked with bacon and jalapenos, a pan of cornbread, and farts. Well, the farts would come later, viciously.
I was sitting there minding my own business when my pal’s friend and his wife stopped by. They aren’t bike racers so I sat there and munched on my chili and beans and blew a couple of 30-weight, light gauge test farts while everyone chatted.
I was pretty pleased with the chili because I had made some the week before and eaten it with another couple of buddies, both cyclists, and their wives, who were well versed in the language of bikers, and everything had gone swimmingly. Anytime you have chili and farts with a dude who used to have orange hair and an Arkansas traveler who spins a yarn a minute, you’re going to have fun.
Anyway, back to the present dinner date … the new dude was pretty funny and was talking about a rad ski trip he’d been on with helicopters and avalanches and shit, and I kind of glanced over at his wife who was diddling the chili with her fork, looking at it like someone had crapped on her plate and called it dinner, but the dude was shoveling it in and smacking his lips so I figured they just had different tastes like married folks always do.
Pretty soon it was my turn to talk so I led with something innocuous, polite, and mildly amusing that wouldn’t offend anyone. It was the story of how I learned my other bike racing pal, B.C., was a legit porn star.
There I had been, looking at this video (I have no idea how I happened on a porn video because I never watch the stuff, yuck), and this dude was doing the monkey stomp dance with this chick and they zoomed in and the dude had this tattoo and I was like “Fuck, that’s old B.C.” so I called my wife over and we opened up his Facegag page and compared the ornate tattoo on his arm with the dude in the video and they were one and the same.
It was pretty funny knowing that you race bikes with a legit sausage swinger, and as I was telling the story everybody was laughing except for Frau Frump the pus bucket, who was making a grossed-out face.
“That’s enough of THAT,” she said, but I misunderstood because I was talking about the cute little Asian bundle who ol’ B.C. was whanging away on, and I thought maybe she wanted me to go back talking about him, so I added some size dimensions and volume output and such but she looked really upset and I finally figured out she didn’t like to talk about motility and guys and chicks getting it on over dinner and so I switched over to a different topic, about how the one thing that Obama should do before he leaves is double taxes and take away all the guns.
As luck would have it, she was a Trumpublican (Who knew? Who?) and would have spit chili if she had eaten any, which she hadn’t because it was so obviously poor man’s food.
I shoveled in a few more spoonfuls of beans and she looked over at me and said real condescendingly, “How long have YOU been married?” but instead of getting the answer she expected, i.e. “I purchased her online last Thursday,” I smiled sweetly and let a bit of chili drizzle out of the corner of my mouth and said, “Thirty years. How about you?”
Frau Pus Bucket scrunched up her face and said, “Five years.”
“Number two?” I asked. “Or number three?”
This made Frau P.B. pretty mad(der) because if she said, “It’s my first,” it would confirm everyone’s assumption that it had taken 45 years to find a guy crazy enough to marry her, and if she said “My second” or “My third” it would confirm that I had nailed her as someone who was about as fun to be married to as a case of wet blankets soaked in piss.
Pretty soon it was time for us to leave, but not before I regaled everyone with a story about the time I joined the Communist Party and lived in a clothing-optional free love compound that manufactured experimental recreational drugs while advocating for abortion rights, a free college education for everyone, and compulsory combat military service for everyone who had ever owned a gun.
I’m not too sure we’ll get invited back, though. You can’t take Mrs. WM anywhere.
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