THE PITH DETECTIVE in HNT NOIR
To enjoy the full effect of this you need to:
1. Click the music on.
2. Read the post out loud in a detective noir style. Guys try your best Humphry Bogart, ladies... try your best sulty Kathleen Turner.
If it doesn't play "click here. A new window will open for the music.
It was one of those late Summer afternoons when the mating habits of flies on a crusty canine turd seemed like the only game worth laying bets on. The only thing on my pith encased mind was a HNT post that was due and I didn't have a doodle of an idea what slimy form this week would take.
I was sippin a vodka mango between puffs of a coffin nail when I eyeballed her slow, swaying bounce saunter up my driveway. She was built like a guitar waiting to be strummed by a one handed gypsy who worked nights in a piston factory. The curvy shadow at the door knocked twice and let herself in.
"I want in on this HNT thing." she purred from her smoky lips. The moment I heard that I knew this "demando doll" was more trouble with a capital T and looking for more.
"Not so fast, sweet cheeks. What makes you think I have any idea what you're talking about?" She sat down and the surly upturned curve from the corners her ruby pucker suckers told me she knew. She grabbed one of my Javanese shadow puppets and toyed with it like a blind rabbit playing a skunk in heat.
"I've seen your "thang" on Osbasso's list."
"My thang?"
"On Osbasso's list. I want in."
She of course was talking about that Maverick from Montana who ran the slickest skin sensation this side of Harry Connick's junior. She knew that I knew that she had me by the curly-q-fries in hot boiling lard but I still wasn't gonna roll over like a five dollar hooker with a ten dollar habit.
"O.K. suger thighs, what do you have to show for it?"
She whipped off her silky pink blouse like a Siamese schucking mangos on the Mekong.
"How about these?" she teased, working the smoke maker between her fingers like a busty latina rolling the tightest chimichanga in a 99 cent border cantina. "I want to see what you got to show, big boy... and I want it in color!"
I warned her, "It's long and it's dark."
"Go ahead. I like being scared." she mocked.
I took it off and let it down. I turned to look and her full rubies quivered like a bowl of jello in an old folks home. She thought I was some surburban palooka with a hankering for a champagne colored SUV but found an orangutan in 501's instead.
All she could say was, "What conditioner do you use?" It was over and she broke.
But her breaking broke me. This old boy scout was about to learn some new knots to tie and some new tents to pup.
When it was over we were done and the score was even. She walked away into the evening leaving this shmoe wanting for more.
So, it goes. It's a crazy business but someones got to do it. As she faded off down the driveway I heard her say, "Happy HNT, hair man."
Special thanks to my friend Dragonfly for joining me this week.
1. Click the music on.
2. Read the post out loud in a detective noir style. Guys try your best Humphry Bogart, ladies... try your best sulty Kathleen Turner.
If it doesn't play "click here. A new window will open for the music.
THE PITH DETECTIVE in HNT NOIR
It was one of those late Summer afternoons when the mating habits of flies on a crusty canine turd seemed like the only game worth laying bets on. The only thing on my pith encased mind was a HNT post that was due and I didn't have a doodle of an idea what slimy form this week would take.
I was sippin a vodka mango between puffs of a coffin nail when I eyeballed her slow, swaying bounce saunter up my driveway. She was built like a guitar waiting to be strummed by a one handed gypsy who worked nights in a piston factory. The curvy shadow at the door knocked twice and let herself in.
"I want in on this HNT thing." she purred from her smoky lips. The moment I heard that I knew this "demando doll" was more trouble with a capital T and looking for more."Not so fast, sweet cheeks. What makes you think I have any idea what you're talking about?" She sat down and the surly upturned curve from the corners her ruby pucker suckers told me she knew. She grabbed one of my Javanese shadow puppets and toyed with it like a blind rabbit playing a skunk in heat.
"I've seen your "thang" on Osbasso's list."
"My thang?"
"On Osbasso's list. I want in."
She of course was talking about that Maverick from Montana who ran the slickest skin sensation this side of Harry Connick's junior. She knew that I knew that she had me by the curly-q-fries in hot boiling lard but I still wasn't gonna roll over like a five dollar hooker with a ten dollar habit.
"O.K. suger thighs, what do you have to show for it?"
She whipped off her silky pink blouse like a Siamese schucking mangos on the Mekong.
"How about these?" she teased, working the smoke maker between her fingers like a busty latina rolling the tightest chimichanga in a 99 cent border cantina. "I want to see what you got to show, big boy... and I want it in color!"
I warned her, "It's long and it's dark."
"Go ahead. I like being scared." she mocked.
I took it off and let it down. I turned to look and her full rubies quivered like a bowl of jello in an old folks home. She thought I was some surburban palooka with a hankering for a champagne colored SUV but found an orangutan in 501's instead.
All she could say was, "What conditioner do you use?" It was over and she broke.
But her breaking broke me. This old boy scout was about to learn some new knots to tie and some new tents to pup.
When it was over we were done and the score was even. She walked away into the evening leaving this shmoe wanting for more.
So, it goes. It's a crazy business but someones got to do it. As she faded off down the driveway I heard her say, "Happy HNT, hair man."Special thanks to my friend Dragonfly for joining me this week.
posted by lecram sinun at 11:17 PM
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