It’s been so long I almost feel awkward…like you are some stupid broad I had a fling with and led to believe I cared about, but then I didn’t call for a while and went about my business, maybe started writing somewhere else and didn’t say anything…but then remembered I missed you, even if it was just for the fact that you always let me put it anywhere I wanted.

Be happy I miss you at all.

Two weeks ago The Skirt and I drove to Detroit. From Atlanta. Yeah, we figured as long as gas was cheap and all…

I got to run the gauntlet. If you are dating someone who isn’t a local, you know what I mean. Her friend was getting married so I got to meet all of her buddies from college and her family.

I thought about being on my best behavior, but “best” and “behavior” are relative. Now her sister thinks I make a living as a bowling trophy sculptor and most of her friends probably can’t sleep because they saw me dance at the wedding reception and they get all hot when they think about it.

The entrance is one of the most fundamental, yet unappreciated segments of proper dance. I usually improvise mine, but I am an expert. For instance here you see me doing a variation of a predatory marionette. The ancient mayans used a similar step- pause, step-pause-pause rhythm in traditional fertility dances. It is imperative as you approach the floor that you lock eyes with anyone making fun of you and don’t flinch. They have to know you mean business.

Here you can see the results of years of training in the forbidden dance. This particular move is a modification of the “perplexed cyclist” position 2. My ass grinds its way toward its victim and I make a “errr- eeee, errr-eeee” sound with my mouth that drives women insane with desire. The Skirt, ever the professional, does her best to show no interest in my supple bottom.

This move is actually illegal in fourteen states. Because of legal issues, I do have to warn you that attempting the Spazimoto without training is extremely dangerous, and I am not at liberty to say exactly how it is executed. Last year alone, four people died and three suffered transposed colons while attempting this combination. It is also deadly to the women, as in this photo you can practically hear The Skirt saying “Can you believe God even made a man that sexy?”

I think it’s safe to say I hit it off with her friends’ husbands and boyfriends, too, and that’s who I really needed to impress.

Slow dancing to the hit song “Reunited (and it feels so good)” with another man is only gay if you put your beer down. So as you can see, I am in the clear even if my hand accidentally slipped and brushed across his ass a few times.

The Skirt was designated Royal Chambermaid or whatever they call the second most important chick at a wedding next to the dame getting hitched. The next morning I had a 5 alarm hangover and four hours of sleep, and we had to go to a baptism for one of her other friend’s kids because she was the godmother.

I really wish her friends didn’t think so highly of her. They probably called her after meeting me and said stuff like “You’re so smart and pretty and rich and stuff. Is Dusty a project boyfriend, or a practical joke on your loved ones?” I made her stop at a grocery store so I could get some Tylenol and take a quick vomit break (at 32 years old, I cannot recover by simply taking a shower), and we soon arrived at the church, which was not air conditioned. Thus proving Jesus’s anger at my transgressions. I wish Jesus was more passive-aggressive. Like if he could just leave an AA flyer on my counter or ignore me and not tell me what he is mad about when I ask him.

Another lesson learned was that you might as well be a girl scout if you throw up after a night of drinking. That is an attitude that is unique to the north, I guess. They are a lot tougher up there because of the large population of Eskimos. Throughout my whole drinking career the act of regurgitation has been thought of by friends as a “mission accomplished” sort of thing; if you drank enough to make yourself barf, then you drank enough.

When I showed up at the friend’s house for a post baptism hootenanny (they call hootenannies “open houses” up there…weird), people gave me varying amounts of crap about it, as the grapevine among The Skirt’s friends is apparently quite efficient. One guy made fun of me and then just sat across the room and smiled at me like he wanted me to punch him.

I should have puked on him.

“Hey, I noticed you are giving me a very condescending smirk/stare combination move from over here. Couldja’ stop that?”
“Nice job holding your booze…”
“hhhoooOOOOOAAAAAAHHHHghuh…..AKKKAKKK…KUH!!…kuh.”
“Oh damn, dude. What the..?”
“Yeah. That’s what I thought. Not so funny when you are wearing a suit made of my stomach lining, is it? Now go clean up. You stink of yak.”

On the drive, The Skirt and I had some interesting conversations. She told me about a story she read on line and said, “It was like an on line diary I guess”
“Yeah, they call them weblogs, shortened to the painfully stupid word ‘blog’. Lots of people have them.”
“Why do people do that? What would you write about?”
“I guess just whatever you want. Stuff that happens to you, what you think about things…I don’t know”
“What kind of dork would have a blog? Like anyone would want to read about some loser’s life.”
“Yeah. I know. Retards. I’m never going to have a blog.”

She’ll stumble upon it soon enough.

At one point, she gasped and swerved, and I looked up to see a dark blur cross mere inches from the bumper and then scuttle off into the trees. Some things scurry, this thing was definitely a scuttler.

“What the hell was that?” I asked, fully convinced it was the Chupacabra.
“I don’t know. It looked like a cross between an alligator and a midget, but with super speed.”
We couldn’t agree on what to call it- a Midgigator or a Crocodgit. We fought for the next nine hours and it ended, as always, with me crying.

I realized a lot about our relatively young relationship-

We have pet names for one another, but not the gay kind. Some of the more common affectionate names are Tumbleweed, Bitch, Meatball, Booger, and Faggot. There are also combinations of these, like Bitchball and Tumblefag, but they are rare.

She sees the humor in scenarios such as the following- Ordering dinner the waitress asks, “What can I get you to drink?”, to which I respond “Two Stellas”. Then The Skirt chimes in “Actually, I wanted a Margarita. Do you have Don Julio?” And under my breath I mutter “Just like always, ruining everything. God I hate that bitch.” Just loud enough that the waitress can hear it.

The waitress doesn’t know what the hell to do and The Skirt glares at me from across the table until the waitress walks away, at which time we high five and laugh like a couple of idiots. Okay, we don’t high five. I hold my hand up for a good fivin’ and she says “Put your hand down, faggot.”

I noticed something that everyone does- When you think you recognize someone and you start screaming “HEY JIM! JIM MAJINSKI! OVER HERE!! YOOOOOOJIMMINATOR! HEY!” and then you realize it isn’t Jim, but you have the attention of the entire city including the Jimpostor. Now embarrassed, you act like you just found a frigging clone of Jim and you are totally overamazed-

“Oh wow you look JUST LIKE JIM. I Swear! It’s uncanny! You could totally go to his parents’ house for thanksgiving dinner and fuck his wife and everything! Can I have some of your hair? Because I will pay two thousand dollars to have your and Jim’s DNA tested just to prove to you that the two of you are IDENTICAL. Oh my god *reaching for phone* Are you going to be here for a second? Because I want to call my friends who know Jim and get them down here so they can see this and further convince you of your physical similarity to my friend Jim. I’d invite Jim himself, but the resemblance might drive him mad.”

As if this complete stranger is going to say, “You know, that IS amazing- we should investigate this matter at once!” at which time you would turn to the assembled crowd and give them a knowing look. All you are really doing is making the world hate you.

Next time it happens, Make fun of them.
“I’m not Jim.”
“Apparently you thought you were for a second there because you turned around when I said Jim. You don’t even know your own name?”
“You tapped me on the shoulder. That’s what people do when tapped on the shoulder. They turn around to identify the tapper.”
“Shut up. You fell for it, you idiot.”

Then puke on them.

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