Chef Jekyll and Mr. Run And Hide

cray cray chef

Pot Sink Diaries
J.T. Hilltop

Working for a manic depressive chef can actually make life in the restaurant more interesting. I say manic but I mean maniacal. Granted if you were the target of his demonic wrath it was not interesting, but frightening, but overall it added to the experience. Chef Jimmy could be unbelievably paternal one minute, handing me a bowl of beef bourguignon and offering sage advice (not the herb), and showering me with spit as he screamed directly at my face loud enough to insure everyone in the restaurant heard my total dehumanization the next. Could never figure out why he felt he needed to get nose to nose to communicate his displeasure, I was well within earshot and fully capable of understanding what a dumb godamn Ben Dayho I was. When he got pissed his evil twin Chef Jekyll came out and everyone else ran to hide. When someone angered the Chef he morphed into something non human. His face got all weird and contorted, taking on a smoky red hue. The wrinkles in his face turned into evil scales, his teeth rattled, veins popped out from all over his forehead and neck, and while this part was probably my imagination little horns protruded under his chef hat. His words found their target escorted by a military formation of saliva to make soggy strikes with surgical precision. All I could do was cower in fear like an abused puppy hoping that my trembling wouldn’t piss him off even further. From the corner of my eye I can see everyone else in the kitchen moving slowly and deliberately away trying to get as far as possible from ground zero. When the painful barrage of rapid fire insults dispensed at uzi speed subsided, the chef walked away mumbling as my comrades came to comfort me. By laughing! “Whew, you really pissed him off this time JT, chef giving you big ole cigar today.” “Ew we baby, cigars coming like grapes today boy, you getting them in bunches.” Wasn’t bad enough I just got eviscerated by the chef, now my co workers come over to gloat that it wasn’t them. When ever a chef or manager bitches you out in the industry we say we’re getting a cigar. It goes back to an old saying about someone being so mad they had a baby, but to be more cryptic restaurant people call it getting a cigar, which the angry person passes out after the birth of their tirade.
The best defense from receiving cigars is keeping the chef mentally balanced. I was skilled at creating such a delicate balance by virtue of subtle ass kissing coupled with schmoozing the hell out of him with my witty youthful charm. Holding up a mixing bowl of seasoned ground beef, putting on a sly smile saying “Want me to roll you balls chef?” Or “Chef, here’s the filet mignons. By the way, I heard they call you Mr. tenderloin.” To which he would give an approving chuckle and begin bragging. Little things like that kept the chef feeling good and when the chef feels good I don’t have to worry about flying knives or being stuffed in the meat grinder. I never witnessed any of that but the rumors abounded.
But fuck ups were like little ghosts all over the kitchen hanging out waiting for their chance to be called out for a haunting, and try as I did all too often I was possessed by the spirit of screw up. Sometimes it comes out of nowhere, during an otherwise uneventful shift. Jimmy had a thick Spanish accent an called me Gay Dee, having problems with J’s. Even his own name was pronounced Himmie, short for Jimenez, but he went with the traditional English pronunciation of Jimmy. He used a drawn out Ahhhhh so he could think about the right enlish word to use….Ahhhhhh, Gay Tee? You feel ahhhhh, hungry?” Sometimes took him over a minute to ask a simple question. On One particular shift started out as a quiet night and Chef was prepping something when I got the call. “Ahhhhhh, Gay Dee…Make me one favor por favor.” I immediately abandoned my post of suds busting by my sinks and ran over, “Yes chef, what do you need?” Ahhhh, Gay Dee, go a downstair anda getta me ahhhhh one case ofa gripeece.” Okay, chef needed something and I was the one he called on. Time to build some kitchen creds. It was considered an honor to do the chef a favor, get on his good side. “Yes chef, right away.” I ran down the stairs two at a time.
When I got to the bottom I began to think, “What the fuck is gripeece?” I looked around first in the storeroom, then the walk in, nothing even remotely close to gripeece. Shit! Now what? I ran upstairs as fast as I could an ran up to Jimmy, “Um chef, I couldn’t find the gripeece.” Believing I showed enough disappointment for the both of us I gave him my “what so you want me to do now” sad eye stare. “Gay Dee, please, ahhhh no fool around. Please go a downstair anna get me ahhhh one case of gripeece from frisser.” A light went on in my head, “Oh, the freezer, okay, be right back.” Back down the stairs I ran and directly to the walk in freezer. I scoured the shelves, all kinds of frozen things, ice cream, veggies, puff dough, pasta’s, meat product, but nothing even close to a gripeece. I double checked. Nothing. Triple checked. Still nothing. That light in my head dimmed as nervousness began to settle in. Now I have to go tell Jimmy we are out of gripeece and I don’t even know what a gripeece is.
I trudged up the steps in a state of severe gloom with a side order of fear. I walked up to the chef to give him the bad news, that we have run out of gripeece. “Um, I-I don’t think we have anymore gripeece chef, I checked everywhere.” Then it happened, almost in slow motion, the face contorted, the veins began popping, the scales showed up on his face and his chef hat moved slightly to allow room for the evil horns. “God a dammit Gay Tee I’m a tella you one more time.” Not good. No drawn out ahhh, the octaves rose as the decibel increased dramatically. Smoke rose off of Chef Jekyll’s neck and I could sense the hidden smiles on the rest of the guys as they anticipated evil Chef unleashing a pit bull of fury at me. “You go a down stair, go a to the frisser, and ona da tird chelf you get a me one case of a gripeece okay? Grie…..Peece.” The light went back on as I trembled under his wrath.. GREEN PEA’S!! “Sorry chef, right away chef” A ran to the basement in record time, flew into the walk in freezer and there on the third shelf, big as life sat a case of green pea’s. I tore back upstairs, brought him the pea’s then just stood there like a dog waiting to be rewarded for giving its paw. “What da hella you want Gay Tee? Huh? Getta you culo back to work you Ben Dayho.”
Knowing I dodged a round of bullets I returned back to my familiar soapy space, took the helm over my three compartment sink where I was more comfortable and commenced to scrubbing away, eagerly awaiting the next opportunity to kiss ass and maybe atone for the stupidity of not understanding my mentor. The chef was mumbling all kinds of shit, mostly about me I’m sure so I decided it was not the time to ask him why he called me and the other guys Ben Dayho. I just assumed it must be the name of the biggest asshole pot washer in restaurant history until one of the guys explained it to me. As soon as he told me what chef meant all I could say was, “God damn, I am such a vendejo!”

The All Time Favoreite Classic Festivus Poem

night before

A Festivus visit
J.T. Hilltop

T’was the night before Festivus
When all through the house
The computer was not working
I couldn’t find the mouse

The stalkers were hung by their necks with such care
In the hopes that the end of their peeping was near
The children ate Nestles they snuck in their beds
And bounced wall to wall, banging their heads

Mom in sexy teddy straddling my lap
Had just bound my hands with a Festivus strap
When down in the kids room there arose such a clatter
I had to get dressed, see what was the matter

Away to the window I flew like a dash
Dropped my full baggie losing my stash
It fell on the breast of the new fallen snow
I watched as my reefer was falling below

When what to my bloodshot eyes should appear
A hallucination of eight tiny reindeer
With a leprechaun in red so lively and quick
I knew in a moment my eyes played a trick

A rainbow of eagles his coursers they came
He yelled at all eight and he called them by name
Yo Bashful yo Sleepy yo Doc and yo Sneezey
Hey Dopey and Grumpy and Happy and Sleezy

Hidden in the dresser where Mom keeps her thong
Now dash away dash away while I get my bong
Then in a twinkling they climbed on the roof
A dancing red leprechaun this must be a goof

As I drew in a hit and was turning around
I opened my hand the bong dropped to the ground
The dude dressed in fur from his head to his foot
Was laughing so hard and he was covered in soot

Bundles of herb buds there on top of his back
Just like a drug peddler carrying a sack
His eyes how they twinkled, and dimples they sank
His cheeks red as roses but his stare was so blank

His droll little mouth drawn up like a joke
His beard on his chin was snow white from some coke
The stump of a chamber pipe he clenched in his teeth
Second hand smoke circled my head like a wreath

He had a broad face and a little round belly
I aired my first grievance and said he was smelly
He was also too chubby and a right fat old elf
And I laughed when I saw him in spite of myself

With a wink of his eye and a twist of his head
He rolled a sweet fatty he bought from a dread
He spoke not a word but played his big role
In the middle of the room placed an aluminum pole

With a feat of strength placed a finger to his nose
An sniffed up more coke through a dollar bill hose
His grievances he aired till his team blew the whistle
And feats of great strength had broken the thistle
But I heard him exclaim the aluminum pole out of sight
Happy Festivus to all, and to all a good night

Enjoy whatever holiday you celebrate and take time to laugh
PEACE

I Think There’s A Rat In This Bitchin’ Kitchen

rat

Pot Sink Diaries
I stood proudly over my pot sink ready to clean anything and everything the chef could throw at me. Literally throw. My gastronomic voyage had officially begun and I dove in to the trip with a work ethic beyond reproach. I scrubbed and cleaned pots and pans until my fingers acquired the same status Mother Nature naturally assigns to prunes and raisins. I happily scrubbed and mopped the floors, scoured the ovens, and enthusiastically awaited orders from ….well just about everyone else in the restaurant. No worries I was willing to perform any thankless task sent my way. This night I learned about one of the mysterious qualities found in any great chef. A great Chef has the keen acumen of understanding the dynamics of the driving desire of a young pot washer’s eagerness to please. Jimmy picked up on this rather quickly informing me of a special “time” in restaurants, a time when things were “quiet.” He called it “downtime”. Downtime sounded harmless when I first heard it escape from Jimmy’s lips, and I thought it might be cool. JT my boy” came the words from my illustrious leader, “Ees a little slow tonight. Looksa like a we have some downtime.”
Well I could barely contain myself. An opportunity had arisen for me to show everyone how gracefully I would be able to handle this newfound downtime. It never occurred to me that the word itself could enlighten me as to what may be in store. The Chef planned to put me “down” and keep me “down”, by assigning me an assortment of unmemorable chores that will get me down in the dumps. As for the “time” portion of my endeavor, it actually meant time consuming. Flagrantly left out of the phrase was tedious. It should be called tedious downtime. This inspirational portion of the evening I get to perform seemingly insignificant time consuming tasks. There are various levels of joy associated with downtime tasks. It could range from the somewhat mindless variety peeling 50 – 100 pounds of potatoes, to the absolute joy depleting role of shrimp peeler. Peeling shrimp is somewhat misleading as well, because chef hands you a ginourous pan of shrimp which you are require to clean. Remove the outer shell, put a lice sown the back of the tine morsel of future deliciousness and remove the incredibly objectionable digestive track that looks like small black sludge. Then rinse it and ass it to the other couple hundred shrimps. How many shrimp can people eat anyway. Don’t they know you are what you eat? Inclusive of all these food related tasks, are a mysterious set of non food thankless jobs given the official name of maintenance. I say mysterious, because I could never figure out how washing the Chef’s car in any way contributed to the dining experience. But wash it I did, along with every piece of kitchen equipment, and every floor within a 5 mile radius. On this particular evening, I was mopping the downstairs. A serene and peaceful place where all foods and food products reside to meditate. They remain at the Storage Inn, a kind of bread and breakfast for the grocery set, until they are summoned upstairs to become part of something monumental. In a back room, seldom used, was where I was sent. Upon arrival, my keen observation noted two non-moving members of the family rodentia lying on the floor. Damn they looked gross. Summoning all my energy to keep my dinner where it belonged, I walked into the next room and informed Edwin, the Chefs nephew or “senior potwasher” whose true job and intellect were yet to be determined. He was however, my supervisor and assisting me. His having been here so long gave him a queer aura of authority. “Hey Edwin man, there are two dead rats in the extra room.” Edwin’s English was worse even than Jimmies, and he just repeated what what what and stared at me puzzled. So of course I motioned with my hands as I said very slowly, for some reason believing that would help him understand, “Next ..room….dead ..rats, two of them!” This is too fucking tedious, and I needed a cigarette so I lit up and walked into another room to chill. Seconds later I heard a blood curdling scream followed by a pounding of wood to wood. I ran to Edwin fearing the worst and there he was still screaming and beating those two already dead rats as if they were zombies. Hard as I tried, the sight of Edwin clutching a broom and beating the shit out of two dead rats took over every rational bone in my body and I broke out in a laugh so fricken hard if Jimmy and Didier had seen me upstairs they would have felt like rank amateurs. Tears forced their way across my cheeks like rivulets of saline. I had to hold my stomach and fall to the floor in an epileptic fit of uncontrollable laughter. To date this may have been the funniest thing I had ever seen in my life and I wasn‘t even high. This is restaurant life. Now my mood was great. Hope it lasts.
Just when I thought Ed couldn’t make me laugh any harder he moved into action. At first I was repulsed and grossed out to the max. With his bare fucking hands he grabbed one dead rat in each, looked at me with a dopey smile that had me wondering if he smoked my hash as he said, “Come witta me JT. We godda bigga sue-prize forra da cheff.” With the rats dangling at his sides he climbed up the stairs like happy from the seven dwarfs. When he reached the top he made room for me to stand next to him and he held these two dead god damn rodents as high as his arm would allow and yelled loud enough so the entire kitchen could hear. “Hey Cheff…..Lookit a what we gotta for you soup!” As the chef and company began laughing wildly I looked on in horror. “Jesus shit Ed, you can’t bring thee disease ridden mother fuckers in a kitchen!” Mortified I looked around and everyone was laughing except Laura. Oh Jesus I thought, she’s the only other one grossed out besides me. Jimmy yelled back, “getta Jense inna here, we gotta special entrée tonight.” The laughter continued and Edwin took the rats back downstairs’ and no sooner did he get to the bottom when he tripped and fell letting the rats fly in the wind. I ran down to see if he was okay and he was frozen on the ground looking up in horror. Across the room was our illustrious asshole manager with a face so red I thought the beets were embarrassed. Over one shoulder a dead rat, the other at his feet. His eyes were exploding volcanoes and if had found the dignity to speak it would have flowed a molten lava of pissed off. I had to leave because my head was about to pop from not laughing at the sight and air was forcing its way through my nostrils. I knew if I let my tears of joy flow I would have lost my job, and I was thinking Edwin may already have lost his. I will never forget the look on Didier’s dead rat slapped face.
Damn that was a rough night I thought as I stopped at the corner of my block that had once served as my bus top. I reached to the bottom of my front pocket and pulled out the tiny piece of aluminum foil Ken had left me, then pulled my trusty hash pipe from my other pocket and unraveled the leftover piece of black hash. “One or two more hits before heading home.” As I lit the hash I thought about how funny it was that I was talking to no one, yet it felt like it needed to be said. I held the smoke from this sweet relief in my lungs and smiled at my ritualistic behavior. As I exhaled I let out a chuckle, remembering the dead rat and Ernie beating the shit out of it with that broom. Can’t wait to tell Ken all about it tomorrow. “But for now, one last hit before going inside.”
Feeling like my legs were on their own path and my brain in a downward dog trance I glanced up and saw the lights still on. Fuck, I thought, the old boy is still awake. Man I was hoping to go to my room, put on my headphones and dig on “Aqualung” the new Jethro Tull album I just bought. I took an extra two minutes to get my head together, a few squirts of Visine to “get the red out”, and repeated my little mantra chant that helped me appear not stoned. “Om Mani Pardre not too high, Om not too high” My good mood would not last long.

Oh Three Kings of Orientar (a sick bastard parody)

3 kinks

Oh three kinks of Orientar
In our space ships we traverse afar
Cosmic Fountain, Galactic mountain
Following yonder quasar

Oh weed of wonder weed of night
Weed of royal smoking flight
Westward leading pot de-seeding
Guide us to the perfect height

Bondage a kink of Beth Liam’s plain
Cuffs I bring to bind her again
Bound forever ceasing never
What is that golden rain?

Oh weed of wonder weed of night
Weed of royal smoking flight
Westward leading pot de-seeding
Guide us to the perfect height

Role play wardrobe to offer have I
Naughty nurse of Deity nigh
Submissive praising will have your man raising
Worship him and get most high

Oh weed of wonder weed of night
Weed of royal smoking flight
Westward leading pot de-seeding
Guide us to the perfect height

Aromatherapy is mine, a better perfume
Breathing musk in your hotel room
Bound for a boning, bleeding and moaning
Kink is what makes kinky love bloom

Oh weed of wonder weed of night
Weed of royal smoking flight
Westward leading pot de-seeding
Guide us to the perfect height

Glorious now his bone shall arise
Kinky sex is your sacrifice
Alleluia Alleluia
Together you both come twice

Oh weed of wonder weed of night
Weed of royal smoking flight
Westward leading pot de-seeding
Guide us to the perfect height

The Seven Deadly Dwarfs

220px-Swaggart_confession_screenshot

A Sick Bastards Fairly True Fairy Tale repost

Sins! Oh sweet Mama are we all guilty of sins. I even remember the righteous Jimmy Swaggart crying “I have sinned” although I suspect the tears were because he was caught. Who among us has not sinned? Personally I will cop to multiple sinning that may border on serial or pathologic levels. The degree of sins I have committed has allegedly assured me a special place in hell. Allegedly! By that I mean if there is a hell and if so then does it really contains special places in it. When I think about it, which honestly isn’t often, Hell couldn’t be as bad as those sanctimonious truth babblers would have me believe. I mean shit, when I die they tell me I have a choice of only two places, heaven or Hell. That’s all the options I get. In heaven I get to sit by the throne of the almighty. No TV, no music, (except some mind numbing harp strumming by Angels), no board games, no electronics, nothing! Jut sit by the throne with a bunch of goody-goods twiddling thumbs. Can’t even think about the fun shit like sex and….well sex. In that case heaven is a place to go to get bored to insanity. Not this boy, I plan to fly over the cuckoo’s nest. Or if Hell is where they say it is then under it. Put me on that elevator straight to hell. Let me live out my days being naked, roasting marshmallows, and sinning like the devil with a shitload of other sinners. A place where sex, drugs, and rock and roll are not only encouraged, but required. Daily entertainment!
So what makes a sin a sin anyway? Who decided what was okay and what was not? How in the hell did someone come up with The Seven Deadly sins? I know what you think, I’m about to start bashing the cross waving holier than thou Christians again, but nope. Uh uh, not this time. This time I point the finger at The Brothers Grimm. In 1812 they took these fire and brimstone causing seven sins to a new level. What’s worse their partner in perpetration Walt Disney himself injected subliminally into the mainstream. Yup, today I blame this shit on Snow White.
Seven dwarfs and seven deadly sins! Coincidence? Hardly! Each one of those diminutive diamond mining denizens represent a sin. And the true tales are full of drugs and parties and enough sex to make the entire population of munchkins giggle with delight. Not convinced yet? Well then allow me to break this shit down!
Wrath. The sin of rage and uncontrollable anger. Why so angry? Well one of the dwarfs, Plick, was cut off. One fateful day in the diamond mine he attempted to steal some diamonds by swallowing them. He was caught, and the others held a group meeting an agreed that as punishment this dwarf was banned from alcohol, weed and coke for six months. Even the lady dwarfs denied him sex. Not only that, he still had to shit out the diamonds without any painkillers. You’d be Grumpy too!
Sloth. The sin of laziness. If that’s true I am one major sinning son of a bitch sinner because I have a masters degree in procrastination. But back to the dwarfs. In the bed next to Grumpy slept Perzlebaum. Perzlebaum was very clever and the first to realize that he had access to Grumpy’s banned stash. Purzle drank so much whisky and puffed up so much weed he passed out. Fuckin’ Perzle slept for three days straight and it caused permanent dammage to his orbital muscles. With his constantly drooping eyes, he earned the name Sleepy.
Lust. The sin of intense desire. Packe was also somewhat of an opportunistic party hound and noticed the lady dwarfs shunning his buddy. Packe woke up each day with that male teenage bane, morning wood. At first he took matters into his own hand, but then the idea came. Grumpy’s ladies must be lonely. Oh he satisfied his normal urges at night in the dwarf bars, but now after 4AM he also prowled the lonely of the night that had once been busy with Grumpy. He engaged in sexual trysts on a scale of many a mans fantasy, sometimes having as many as four little ladies a night. He even started experimenting with trans gender dwarfs which caused him to become an orgasm addict. Poor Packe fucked himself silly. Literally! He fucked his own brains out. He is still off balance and to this day still known as Dopey.
Envy.The sin of jealousy. Now comes Huckepack. He was once considered somewhat of a dwarf ladies man, a playa amongst playa’s. But he noticed how easily Dopey was getting laid and it bothered him. Huckepack wanted a piece of the action and not just the plain looking ones, he wanted to go after the super hot little juicy fruits. When he finally did score the dwarfette of his dreams he was stoked. No, not stroked you pervert, stoked! Once in the bedroom he was over excited, and he stripped immediately. He had not taken into account that he had just returned from swimming. Uh huh, shrinkage! Juicy fruits eyes went directly to his compromised dwarf hood. One look at his shrunken treasure and his naked conquest let out an emasculating giggle. She then said to him “Who are you expecting to please with that tiny thing?” Embarrased and angry Huckepack looked at her horrified screaming “ME BITCH!” But it was not a save. She hit him below the belt and his confidence was rocked to all hell. He grabbed his clothes and ran out in tears of shame. He never worked up the nerve (That’s not a euphanism) to talk to her or any other women ever again. He was labeled Bahsful.
Pride. The sin of self indulgance. Many consider this to be the worst, holding ones own esteem so much higher than everyone else’s. My oldest brother is like that, always better than the ret of us. I’m sure he’s somewhere looking down on us all right now. He’s not dead, he’s just a condescending ass. But this is the story of Rumplebold. This young dwarf was quite enterprising. His biggest problem was he believed he deserved the best of everything. He was entitled to everything that the dwarfs had and then some. With the others using up all of Grumpy’s weed and whisky it was Rumplebold who deserved the most expensive part of the stash. At least he thought he did so he confiscated the entire cache of Grumpy’s cocaine and went to town. Rumple did lines of coke everywhere he went and all day and night. He was wired to the max. He tried to hide it from the others, but it was impossible. Dude was sneezing white power from his nose regularly. There was so much blow up his nostrils he couldn’t stop sneezing. Yup, Sneezy.
Gluttony. The sin of over-consumption. Ah yea, too much of everything, no moderation what so ever. This has to be Puck. Puck may have been the cleverest of all seven. Puck knew just what he wanted. Everything! And lots of it. What made him clever was knowing how to take what he desired without raising awareness. He was slick and had an ample supply of whisky, weed, and women. His big problem was munchies. He was the one who did the weekly food shopping an always went right after puffing a fatty. The others never even knew that he bought and stashed boxes of ring dings, ho-ho’s and double stuffed Oreo’s. Ate himself silly. He became fat and jolly. Oh yea, he was one happy Puck. Always smiling, always laughing, always…..Happy.
Greed. The sin of material pursuit. This brings us around to our last dwarf, Naseweis. Ole Nasy was greedy from the start. He wanted flat screens, and smartphones, designer clothes, expensive jewelry, and a Bentley to take into LA to shop at Rodeo Drive. He had a hunger for living in the material world and wanted a material girl. Maybe even shag Madonna. But how could he afford all these things? An idea struck him. He went online and bought a fake doctorate from WebMD and began selling scripts to the other six. It’s rumored he even sold a script for Propranol to the wicked witch. No matter, he recognized the weaknesses in all of us and exploited it as a doctor. Even though it was fake it worked, and they all go to “Doc” when they want vial of feel good.
So that’s it. That’s why I blame these fictional characters for creating the seven deadly sins. I’m calling them out. Who knows, maybe it will even start a whole new religion. Or at least a sect. The Seventh Sin Adventists or something. We can be known as Dwarfies. We will pray for illicit happenings, sing about sinful exploits, and even approve same sect marriage. Maybe I’ll even get my own compound out of the deal. We’ll lock ourselves in and commit every sin possible. You can come and join if you want, all sinners no saints! Just remember, I am a shameless sinner, so if I do offer you some Kool Aid, make sure it’s the electric kind. Have a nice trip……PEACE

SNOW PLOW ENVY

a plow

Dig this, I’m not about ranting over the effects of Global Warming, at least not today, but ya gotta admit the weather across the globe has been pretty friggen strange over the last bunch of years. Take for instance this past snowstorm that had Texans bucking black ice patches instead of wild horses, Nevadans gamble their driving capabilities, and Kentuckians and Tennesseans blaming snow instead of bourbon for their accidents. Here on the NE coastal Tri State area it just dumped an unusual early snowstorm to warn us of whats to come. Superbowl of a blizzard? Maybe, but yesterday all it did was inconvenience us and unleash that major winter headache, amateur snowplow drivers.
All sorts of pick up trucks sporting huge plows on the front to push around snow. A closer look inside these trucks often reveals a small problem. That is to say, a diminutive driver who lacks self confidence using a big plow to compensate for something! Some of these frustrated plowers are so insecure they’ve had their plows hanging out for all to see right through the summer. Look over here ladies, my plow is up an ready. What they may not realize is that while pushing the snow about is somewhat impressive, if you don’t know how to park the plow is only an attachment. No matter what you have, if you can get it into the parking space skillfully the size of the shovel is irrelevant.
Yesterday afternoon I watched as two pick up trucks pulled up alongside each other at a red light. Their face were forlorn, because it was early afternoon and the storm had already dropped its load and the roads were all clear. I couldn’t help but notice how each of them snuck a glance at the others plow. Clear and obvious plow envy! I remember a time way back when one summer after polishing off a number of beers and shots of Jack Daniels out in the Hamptons I meandered into the rest room to repay the beverages I had borrowed from the bar. It was pretty clear I was not a resident, my clothes certainly betrayed the fact that I was not one of the “beautiful people” who often partied in West Hampton. Also clear was the dude standing at the urinal beside me was indeed one of those beautiful people, even his socks looked tailor made. As I took care of business his head tilted slightly to what could only be considered an attempt to catch a glimpse of my equipment. I had to wonder why he was sneaking a peek at my man muscle. Was he comparing his to mine or mine to his? Was he interested in more than just a peek, or was he merely wondering if someone from my side of the tracks had a tell tale mark or different shaped appendage.
Of course that was just young mans penis envy, wondering how to gauge if he was in the ballpark of average penile hang-age or if he was perhaps in the …ah…. larger percentile, which I’m sure was his hope. Sorry to have disappointed him….. Oh wait, I didn’t mean to imply I am larger, I meant that size doesn’t matter. Well it matters to a degree, way too much or way too little may be hard to….ah.. overcome! But like I said earlier, if a guy knows how to park his vehicle properly a smaller car can be just as powerful, effective, and attractive. Apparently however, this rule of …ah….thumb does not apply to the overcompensation crowd. It was a case of dueling plows and I’m not sure what the winner gets and I really don‘t care. Personally, I think its better to concentrate on having the right mud flap anyway….

We Three Kinks Of Orientar

3 kinks

Oh three kinks of Orientar
In our space ships we traverse afar
Cosmic Fountain, Galactic mountain
Following yonder quasar

Oh weed of wonder weed of night
Weed of royal smoking flight
Westward leading pot de-seeding
Guide us to the perfect height

Bondage a kink of Beth Liam’s plain
Cuffs I bring to bind her again
Bound forever ceasing never
What is that golden rain?

Oh weed of wonder weed of night
Weed of royal smoking flight
Westward leading pot de-seeding
Guide us to the perfect height

Oh weed of wonder weed of night
Weed of royal smoking flight
Westward leading pot de-seeding
Guide us to the perfect height

Role play wardrobe to offer have I
Naughty nurse of Deity nigh
Submissive praising will have your man raising
Worship him and get most high

Oh weed of wonder weed of night
Weed of royal smoking flight
Westward leading pot de-seeding
Guide us to the perfect height

Aromatherapy is mine, a better perfume
Breathing musk in your hotel room
Bound for a boning, bleeding and moaning
Kink is what makes kinky love bloom

Oh weed of wonder weed of night
Weed of royal smoking flight
Westward leading pot de-seeding
Guide us to the perfect height

Glorious now his bone shall arise
Kinky sex is your sacrifice
Alleluia Alleluia
Together you both come twice

Oh weed of wonder weed of night
Weed of royal smoking flight
Westward leading pot de-seeding
Guide us to the perfect height