Walkin

One day I was walking down the street, which is funny because I normally drive, but I felt like living dangerously. I guess I needed a little something to spice things up and break the monotony. Anyway, I was making good time. Rushing, even though I had no place to be. No destination in mind, just moseying quickly. I had my comfy walking shoes on, my 8 inch stilettos with a color resembling Dorothy’s pair from the Wizard of Oz, the kind that doesn’t draw much attention. I had some old jeans on that were pretty ragged but I just couldn’t part with because they fit my body like a glove. There were tears in them at odd places, like under the butt and in the knees but they didn’t reveal much so I still deem them acceptable to wear in public. It had taken years to break them in right and to discard them now would mean many years of painstaking jean wearing to make a new pair conform to my chiseled hind quarters. No thanks. The outside air had a nip to it so I had also adorned myself with a long sleeved flannel shirt that had also been worn to perfection. Moseying had worked up a powerful thirst inside me so I veered off the road to hit a convenience store and purchase a refreshing beverage. Just as I planted my foot to lift my other foot onto the curb, I felt my whole body descend as though I were in an elevator. As I pondered the reason for this for about 1/8 of a second I felt a hot excruciating pain shoot up my body as I used my crotch to stop my descent. I had apparently fallen into a sewer grate. Really? After trying to swallow my balls back down my throat unsuccessfully for about 5 minutes in order to breathe, they finally slipped back down past my Adam’s apple and into their proper placement downstairs. Not only were the contents of my man bag hurting but more so was my pride. I reached down the grate with my right arm to take my pumps off so that they didn’t become dislodged and fall off as I pulled my legs out of the grate. I grabbed the right pump and went to lift my arm out but got my shirt stuck on something and ripped the whole sleeve off. Honestly what the #%*@ is going on? In an attempt to preserve my left sleeve, I tired to reach my left pump with my right arm. I was prevented from doing so because of the awkward positioning of my body. My swollen family jewels looked like a pair of kid’s legs on a teeter totter because they were split down the middle by a metal bar. Every time I tried to contort my body to reach my left leg a new unwanted pain would shoot up my spine. Hesitantly, cautiously I lowered my left arm down to grab my other red, glittery pump. Right as I had lifted my foot out of the pump some guy lifted me out of the grate ripping my pant legs off to the butt so that the skin fold at the base of my butt showed. You know the part where butt becomes leg, also referred to as the but-leg junction. I looked down and also noticed my empty left sleeve and the bottom half of my shirt dangling on the grate. The man said he was sorry about ripping my clothes but he just couldn’t bear watch me in that position any longer because it made his goods hurt to look at me. I verbally thanked him although my face displayed utter disgust and hatred. You would think he would first ask if he could assist! So there I was in ripped pants, now shorts, looking like French-cut cut offs and a flannel shirt ripped at the shoulders and across the bottom 2 inches above my belly button. Somewhere somebody whistled. I paid no attention. I was too embarrassed and emotionally hurt. I asked if anyone could give me a ride home because I was too embarrassed to walk home. You would have thought I just farted because everyone took off running. Some guy even threw down some old lady and ran over her face twice. What an ego boost. No kind soul wanted to be seen with me. Oh well, I would just walk it off. My gait was no longer quick but slowed and awkward. When I was unceremoniously hoisted out of the sewer grate my knees hit the borders. So now when I walked I limped with both legs and it made my hips switch back and forth like a lady. I was almost as graceful as a one legged ballerina. Almost. It was going to be a long walk home. As I seemingly but unintentionally walked provocatively down the street, I noticed a charity face painting stand set up in front of a foster home. The kids were trying to raise some money for new clothes to make them more appealing to potential parents. I couldn’t refuse the cause and thought my luck might turn around for supporting them. They asked what I wanted them to paint on my face. I told them a smile. They looked at me funny then proceeded to use my face as their canvas. I should have first asked to view their portfolio first because what resulted was extremely disheartening. They made me up to look like a clown and a whore had met one evening, done a lot of crack, procreated and produced a lust child. I tried to stymie the disgust that arose in my heart from registering on my face. I couldn’t break their hearts even though I wanted to break their necks. My disgust turned to blinding anger as my eyes slowly drifted down to the instruments these hack artists had used to decimate my face. PERMANENT MARKER, the markers blaringly declared. My mind was clearly elsewhere when I sat down because I didn’t think it was weird that I was at a “face painting” booth and some hopefully not aspiring young artist was drawing on my face with a marker. I should have been able to feel the difference between a paint brush and a felt tip. What a day, what a day. After contributing to their clothing fund I took up the journey home. If I was any lower I would be walking underground. As I crossed over the train tracks one of my pumps got stuck in the track. I leaned down to see if I could jostle it loose with my hands and unintentionally exposed my whole backside because there wasn’t enough material to span my whole buttocks while bending over. As I fumbled with the stuck pump I heard a loud squealing of tires. What the hell?!?! I looked to my left to see some dude in a Trans Am staring at me with one thing on his mind. “How much?” he asked. “Oh, no it’s not what you think,” I said. “No it is what I think. Why else would anyone be dressed so pretty and slutty down at the train tracks?” “Long story brother. You realize I’m a man right that can kick your butt?” I said with authority. “Yeah, why do you think I stopped?” he said as he opened the door from the inside, “That’s the way I like em.” I briefly considered ending his life but the consequences of the poor decision smacked my brain like the business end of a 2 by 4; there will be more guys like him in prison. Damn. Even though one red pump was stuck I managed to clink my free heel into the lodged one thrice while chanting the words, “There’s no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home.” Much to my chagrin I opened my eyes to the sad realization that I hadn’t gone anywhere. Double damn. I wanted to fly away but opted to vomit all over the inside of his car. Was I in a dream? Was this for real? You couldn’t script something like this, it was too weird. But it was real and it was happening. In order to fully convince him of my appreciation, I released the remaining contents of my disgruntled stomach in an arcing cylindrical column of spew via my esophagus. “That’s nice. Get it all out. I don’t like fat guys,” the creep said. “Just get the hell outta here,” I screamed. He peeled off leaving me in two clouds; one of smoke and one of sorrow. A cool breeze swept over me and chilled my bare stomach, lower half of my butt and all my legs. I pulled my socks up as high as they could go to combat the chill and pointed my runny nose toward home. The sun was going down in addition to the temperature and I was still a mile away from home. I trudged toward home to a cacophony of honking horns, whistles and cat calls. How humiliating. Up ahead a car eased into the emergency lane and a stunning woman emerged from the vehicle. “Can I help you ma’am, sir, umm thing?” she said as she chuckled. “Sorry I didn’t mean to be rude I just couldn’t tell your gender from the rodeo clown/hooker/crack whore/nymphomaniac uniform you have on.” I’d had enough ridicule for the day that all I could do is laugh. “That’s fine. I know I look ridiculous,” I somehow managed to say as I got lost in her eyes. They were like tractor beams pulling my heart and soul into them. The sun wasn’t quite past the mountain ridges yet and the way the light illuminated her face against the sunset backdrop made me weaker in the knees. Stunning wasn’t an adequate description for this gorgeous being in front of me. I had to be careful; I didn’t have much pant material to spare. (If you catch my drift. Wink. Wink. Poke. Poke.) “You look like you need a pressure washer, a bleach bath and a tailor,” she said as she shot me a wink. “Hop in I know just the place.” I was ecstatic and curious at the same time. What kind of place specializes in those three things? And so I inquired. “Why, my house silly,” came the reply. There was a sound of ripping jean material that pierced the silence within the car. “What was that?” she asked. “Oh, I think you must have run over something,” I sheepishly stammered as my face temperature increased by 500 degrees. “Too bad I was kinda hoping it was jean material being stretched beyond its limits,” came the response from her sugar coated lips. I hope I would have the chance to de-sugarize those things. The temperature increase in my face relocated to my special area and I tried desperately to think about baseball. Was she attracted to me as a man? Or as a man dressed like a cheap skank? Or was she attracted to the skank? Who the hell cares, she was interested in horizontal refreshment and I would happily indulge her!

Momma always said to share.