Half way through May, again, I anticipate with regularity the June month, as my colon waves in spasms, goose stepping in quick time to June. I should look up old friends, old ****-buddies if I were a homosexual (which I'm not). It seems relaxing to sit when spoken to; to speak from a seat.
“I assure you,” the waitress said with the tight skirt.
“That's ****,” I said.
“What is?” She asked.
“The word 'assure' because it's got '***' in it,” I said.
“Even better,” she observed in a tight-*** framing way.
“Titusville, get it? Tight *** Ville?!”
“Oh yeah. Will you let me measure you against all women?”
“Sure,” she said. “It's the least that I could do.”
Panic came upon me like it was 1929.
“I'd sell everything to be rid of my things.”
“I hear you,” she said while adjusting her hearing aid.
“If you'll trust me just once I won't have to
buy a second pregnancy test,” I informed.
“I will. Besides, in the end, it'll all be
worth it, the ointment – everything.”
I could see her better because I sat behind her from where
she stood. “I'd **** a million democrats on your say-so,”
said I to get between her ***'s puffy parts.
“I love you,” she whispered as I gave
her a tip, my tip, just enough to win.
“Do you miss me mucho big? Am I not too mucho
macho for you?” I asked very Spanishly.
“You're **** when you talk wet-back. Are you a wet-back?”
“No, I'm not a wet-back.”
“That's good. I don't mind a little grease now and again.”
“Me too.”
The temperature was drooping (& dropping) and
I knew that pipes froze at a low temperature.
“Take off your ****** and let me feed you a taco.”
“I don't wear underpants.”
“Me too.”
That night our waitress/customer relationship
remained whole as I just pulled out enough to win.