when nature calls

"I say- I say- I say- I say whaaat?" Leroy looked down at his phone in surprised disbelief, breaking his cigarette in the process.

"You heard me, Leroy" responded a raspy voice. "I'm going to be coming for you, in the future." 

(The voice was from the future, apparently. The voice also apparently smoked a copious amount of cigarettes between now and then.)

"You for real right now?" Leroy narrowed his eyes and continued to look into the phone's mouthpiece, puzzled. He lowered his voice. "This some real talk?"

"This is what I like to call 'futuristic real talk', Leroy." The voice was two-parts cold, one-part foreboding.

Leroy was beginning to feel threatened. He summoned up all of the cool courage in his voice that he could. "H-how about you tell me your name so I can make sure that I watch out for you down the road, in the future, that is." 

"My name's Sandy." The voice on the phone at the very least sounded honest. "And any efforts to avoid me will prove to be futile. I'm one cougar that you don't want to mess with."

The year was 1967. The term "cougar" wouldn't be associated with nicely-aged women for another 45 years.

Needless to say, Leroy was puzzled at the use of the word "cougar". Would cats in the future be able to talk? If this one was able to hold a phone, would cats in the future also have opposable thumbs? Leroy suddenly felt less scared about the future, and much, much more curious.

"Whatever, cat lady. Peace."

Leroy hung the phone up and reached into his pocket for another cigarette. He lit a match. 

A gentle breeze blew it out.   

drink scientists read playboy

Dr. William Mitchell raised the test tube up so that it was eye level. He peered through the bubbling orange liquid. Lowering the tube, he dipped his pinky into the concoction. He inserted his finger into his puckered mouth and smacked his lips with satisfaction as he tasted the bittersweet elixir. He placed the test tube back into the holder. He glanced at the clock. He wiped his brow and began to unbutton his stark white lab coat. 

"Nice work ladies, let's call it a day." With that, he dismissed his attractive, all-female staff, winking at each one as they passed by him and headed towards the door.

Dr. William Mitchell soon found himself alone in his laboratory with his thoughts and his notes. He could still taste the flavorful fluid on his lips. It tasted like success. Piquantly potent, with a smooth and citrusy finish; divinely decadent, with with an orange bite that beckoned for just one more sip. Dr. William Mitchell's taste buds didn't lie. He knew that he had created a breakthrough in fruit-flavored drink. 

The world-renowned drink scientist closed his notebook up, and locked it away in his desk. Leaning back, the  poured himself a gracious glass of whiskey and propped his feet up on his desk. He liked his whiskey neat.

William reached down into his briefcase and took out the latest issue of Playboy. He immediately flipped right to the centerfold and oggled for a bit.

Doctor William Mitchell had created what the world would soon come to know as Tang. Prior to that day in beverage history, "tang" was slang for "poontang." Naturally, Dr. William Mitchell was the sort of man that read Playboy.

secondhand smokeshow

I reached into my spijkerbroek (jeans) and felt for my aansteker (lighter). 




"Alstublieft (please)? Can I sniff your Klompen Kloggen (primo pipe tobacco)?" She repeated herself. She was beautiful.




I took my hand out of my zak (pocket). I looked into her blauw oogs (blue eyes). 




"You realize that secondhand smoke kills approximately 600,000 people annually, right?”

She nooded her hoofd (head). “Ja.” She looked at me intently.

I was in a moral quandary, which was certainly not the situation I wanted to be in. All I wanted to do was puff on my pipe and think the situation over, but that was no longer an option.

“You realize that secondhand smoke contains thousands of toxic chemicals, like ammonia, butane, cyanide, lead, polonium, right?”

She nodded her hoofd once again.

I was not about to give in to her suicidal request.

“I’m sorry, pretty Dutch girl, but the answer is ‘neen’ (no). I can’t be responsible for your slow and painful death. There’s no way I’m about to carry that burden around with me for the rest of my life.”

Tears began to stream down her tender wang. Wang is Dutch for “cheek”. She covered her slender gezicht (face) with her hands and started to sob and stomp her wooden clogs on the ground.

I looked around anxiously, she was beginning to make quite a scene.

“Hey. Hey, girl, stop that. Stop that crying. Right now. Get ahold of yourself.”

She looked up at me, her oogs were watery and bloodshot, her wangs were wet with her salty tears. Then, she went off.

“WAT GA JE ROOK LAASTE BEZWAAR SPRICKEN SE BOOGLE FRUGLE FROZEN FREEGLE (???)!!! FUR TESTIKELEN (testicles) ZWEET (sweat) SCHOUDER FROUDER (?) KLOMPEN KLOGGEN (primo tobacco), MAANDAG (Monday), DINSDAG (Tuesday), WOENSDAG (Wednesday), DONDERDAG (Thursday), VRIJDAG (Friday?), ZATERDAG (Saturday) PREJUGEN BROWGDING FROWDING ZONDAG (Sunday), HAKKEN WANDELSTOK TROUTFLINKEN SPREE-”

I couldn’t take it any longer. “OK! JESUS CHRISTFAGGEN!” I pulled out my pipe and my aansteker (lighter), and lit the tobacco and blew out a puff of smoke in her face. “There, you happy?”

The girl instantly stopped hyperventilating and composed herself. She smiled at me.

“Dank u! (Thank you!).” She curtseyed and then skipped off awkwardly, her clogs clunking loudly behind her. She disappeared into a thrift shop down the street.

I stared after her. She was a secondhand smokeshow. I was intrigued. 

panty-dropping pants

Broomsticks. The official pantage of 1960's pornographia.

"No matter what the pornographic niche, no matter what the ratio of breasts to hairy chests, Broomstick pants stand up for when you want to get down, and strip down for when you want to get it up."

Now available in yellow, tan, bukkake black, penetration plaid, voyeur violet, and creampie!

Broomsticks. Get some. 

pipe dreams

Becky slowed her jog and paused to check her smartphone. Text message. From Steph. Boy troubles. Hold on jog, brb. Becky's thumbs tapped the HD screen faster than her feet had ever moved on pavement.

Phil had been napping lightly in his wicker chair. He was in the middle of a dream when he heard the distinct sound of footsteps on pavement. He cracked open his eyes and spotted a young joggette at the foot of his driveway. Hold on nap, brb. The old man reached for his pipe and in one fluid motion struck a match and exhaled a puff of smoke.

Birds chirped in the trees, leaves danced in the breeze, the sun played peek-a-boo with the clouds. It was truly the perfect kind of day to be on the yoga pants prowl. It was the perfect day to be an octogenarian named Phil.

Becky and Steph continued to go at it textually. Steph had been seeing an "older man" as of late, of whom Becky had yet to meet.  Steph was concerned that her new beau was a pill-popping opioid addict. The last time she was at his house she snooped through his medicine cabinet. She was gravely concerned.

Phil sat there watching the tender young thing switch her weight back and forth from leg to leg with each outgoing text. He nibbled on his pipe and grinned. 

A soft breeze blew across the yard. Phil manufactured a fat smoke ring with his lips and blew it across the yard. The ring hovered over the girl like a halo before dispersing.

Becky was now sitting indian style on Phil's front lawn, textity texting away. Phil was perplexed by today's textually active generation. He soon grew restless however, and got up from his chair. Phil lumbered into his garage with a wrinkled smirk on his face and a youthful sparkle in his eye. 

The sweet spiced aroma from Phil's pipe still lingered in the air. It reminded Becky of her grandfather. 

Moments later the sprinkler system went off, sending jets of water all over the lawn. Becky screamed surprisedly and sprang to her feet.  

Phil poked his head out of the garage and laughed as the girl sprinted away. He continued to chuckle as he reached down to check his phone. He had a new text message. It was from his new ladyfriend he had been seeing as of late, her name was Steph. He read the message.

Phil, we need to talk :-/

Ugh. Phil rolled his eyes.