My Reputation and How It Is Slowly Destroying Me

As anyone who's ever read this blog can tell ya, I'm a bit of an ass man. So, for my money, the single greatest thing in the world is being on the business end of a 69. Equally spectacular is seeing a fair lass assume the "ready for action" stance on all fours, waiting eagerly for me to stop reading from my dogeared copy of The Great Gatsby and go to work.

Problem is, I'm something of a watcher. That is to say, as I move in for the kill, I often find myself mesmerized -- almost hypnotized -- by the round ass before me. Suddenly, I'm the 6 year old kid finding a shiny new bike under the Christmas tree -- Holy Jesus! A girl's ass! -- and I just have to stop and admire it for a while. Literally. As in just sorta staring at it, gently rubbing my hands over it, for a long stretch o' time. Thing is, I've found through the years, it doesn't do much for the Kenette in question.

"What are you doing back there?" they'll typically ask. Others kinda casually glance back, making sure I'm still actually in the room. One former Kenette, increasingly frustrated with my modus operandi, asked for a pillow and a magazine to keep her busy while I went through the motions.

Why bring all this up? Because last Friday, against my better judgment, I slipped out to Panera Bread for lunch ["Have you tried the roast beef? It's only $12.65 today!"], and ran into an old friend of said former Kenette. It was one of those awkward, incredibly uncomfortable neither-of-us-has-anything-to-say-to-each-other-so-we-babble-incessantly-for-ten-minutes things, and at one point, she inevitably offered an update on the Kenette.

"She's doing great," she said. "Actually, your name came up the other day. We were talking about old boyfriends, and she said, 'if you look beyond that weird ass thing, Ken was a pretty cool guy.'"

It's official. Time to move to the west coast.