Miss December

December 1969

home for the holidays [pt. 1]

The bus driver's voice crackled over the intercom. "It looks like we will be arriving at our final destination a little later than expected, folks."

This came as no surprise to me or any of the other more observant Megabus riders; we had advanced approximately a hop, skip, and a jump over the past hour.

From my aisle seat on the upper deck of the bus I leaned over and attempted to see if the traffic was moving at all. A line of stagnant red tail lights stretched as far as the eye could see. Like the Christmas lights strung on the gutters of Satan's house in hell for the holiday season.

Normally I would hitch a ride home for the holidays with friends. They didn't have to even be friends, they just had to have a vehicle with ample leg room and decent gas mileage. If I had to choose between taking the Megabus or riding bitch in an eighteen-wheeler with stick shift between my legs the whole ride, it would be the easiest decision of my life. I even had a trucker name picked out for the occasion: Rubber Duckie.

As fate would have it however, for this trip I was friendless and carless. I blamed it on the fact that Hanukkah came early this year, and my Jewish friends had already high-tailed it home. If my Jewish buddy Moses was sitting with me on the bus, perhaps he could have parted the red sea of tail lights and made room for this girthy Megabus to sneak through. Unfortunately for me, Moses was home hosting Hanukkah dinner at his place tonight. Mazel tough luck.

The bag of trail mix I had picked up at the last rest stop had been deceivingly salty, and my desire for a quenchful drink now nearly equaled my desire to have the bus drive off a cliff and end this painful ride.

I glanced at the last text I had received on my phone almost an hour before. From my mother:

Per your request, picked up some beer at the store for you. Hope you like Miller High Life it was on sale. Should be cold by the time you get home. <3

When I received the text I had been less than enthused about her choice of brews. I for one didn't buy into that "Champagne of Beers" marketing malarky. Sitting parched in my ugly blue upholstered Megabus seat however, I was in no longer in any position to be picky. I would graciously suck down a Miller High Life without any qualms, because frankly, it would mean that I was finally home.

The bus had become eerily quiet. The incessant sound of phonecalls in their various dialects had ceased. There was just the gentle hum of the bus's engine, and the sound of stale air being recycled through the vents. In the muffled silence I heard something tiny and hard rolling around on the floor below me. I bent down with and illuminated the object with my phone screen. It was a tiny white capsule, no larger than an aspirin.

As I held it up close to my face it appeared to be an Ambien. I shrugged and popped it into my mouth, praying that it would temporarily put me out of my misery. 

I sucked on my tongue briefly to accrue enough saliva to swallow what I had hoped to be a sedative whole. Like magic, within 5 minutes I was feeling rather drowsy. I gladly closed my eyes.

When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was that I was definitely not in a Megabus. I was lying in the middle of what appeared to be a field full of dead corn stalks. The sun was coming up over the horizon and my extremities were painfully numb. I did my best to feel around for my phone. It was a fruitless endeavor. I officially had no idea where I was, or where my phone was. I was sure of one thing, however. 

I was very, very far away from the cold Miller High Lifes that were waiting for me.

*  *  *  To Be Continued  *  *  * 

Miss November

a Movember to remember

For many blokes, this particular time of the year incites feelings of inadequacy, inferiority, and lip-numbing coldness.

Jealous and sad eyes enviously stare endlessly at masculine men strutting around with their most prized and primmed possession, on full display for the whole world to see.

Because it's Movember, the time of year when anyone lacking the machismo required to manufacture a mustache or mouthmane is left feeling like a feeble follicle floating in a sea of self pity.

However Movember doesn't have to be Mope-vember anymore, thanks to the good folks over at Commodore. 

Introducing Commodore's exclusive line of adhesive lip accessories. Made with hair so real that your friends will completely forget that you were barely sporting peach fuzz the day before, Commodore mustaches are designed to help you take back the month of Movember in style.

It's easy, too! Simply strap a Commodore mustache onto your upper (and/or lower lip), smile confidently with your new faux-facial hair, and enjoy the ride.

The mustache ride, that is.

February 1969

 

Misses October

October 1969

sock game time

There were four men standing around Shirley. One by one they each removed a sock and tossed it at her. This continued until everyone was barefoot and Shirley was covered in socks, and the men all shouted out "SOCKKAKE" in unison.

It was probably the weirdest sock game that Shirley had ever participated in.

Miss September

February 1970

Miss August

April 1969

playing footsies

[I received this heartfelt note with this box of socks:]

Socks can be red,

They can also be blue.

There's a secret inside me,

I must share with you.

 

 The feelings I have bottled up,
Make me a special kind of girl.
When I picture you wearing these colorful socks
It makes my toenails curl.

 

Socks come in all colors,

And in many different hues.

I simply can't stop fantasizing

About the feet inside your shoes.

 

This is really quite embarrassing,

My face is turning reddish,

Do you understand what I'm hinting at?

I have a foot fetish.

 

It can be our little secret,

I promise to be discrete.

That being said, would you object
If I continued worshipping your feet?


 

breast. couch. ever.

April 1971

Miss June

September 1966

Miss May

bare bumming a ride

Standing by the side of the road, Janice stood very still, and very naked.

 

In one hand, she held up a sign with her destination scribed in bold, red letters. In the other, she held up a thumb. The girl needed to get to New York City.

 

You see, Janice had an audition at a prestigious art school later that afternoon. She could barely believe that she was only an audition away from landing a job as a figure-drawing model.

 

Rather than drive to the city, Janice figured she could save on gas money and get some practice in prior to auditioning by hitchhiking, naked. And it just so happened to be a glorious day to be naked- the sun was shining brightly in the sky, and there wasn't a cloud to be seen.

 

Janice just hoped that whoever picked her up didn't have a molten-hot leather passenger seat.

 

 

 

May 1970

Miss April

April 1963

let's talk about six

Darren finished his fifth beer and motioned for another. He smiled at the girl sitting at the end of the bar; he was feeling frisky. 

Truth be told, five beers earlier, Darren would have probably rated the lass only about a 6 or so. He most likely would have let her be.

But that was five beers ago. She now had some serious six appeal. 

April 1972

changing the game

[ TL;DR

Radical change #1: Vertical headlights

Radical change #2: Vertical license plate ]

Let it also be noted that in addition to radical changes made to the manufacturing, the following game-changing amendments have been made to the official Punch Buggy Game doctrine:

Amendment #1: Pregnant women are now off limits. Any participant caught punching a pregnant woman after proclaiming "punch buggy" will be suspended indefinitely from the Game until said pregnant woman gives birth.

Amendment #2: Infants are also now off limits. Any participant caught punching an infant after proclaiming "punch buggy" will be suspended indefinitely from the Game until said infant outgrows his or her car seat.

Amendment #3: No brass knuckles. No exceptions. Unless the other participant is wearing brass knuckles, that is.

Amendment #4: Any hit following a punch in which a player proclaims "no punch backs" will result in the chopping off of both hands publically, preferably in the middle of the town square.

That is all. Thank you for your time. Punch away.

Miss March

May 1973

scuba divers read playboy

Garth staggered out of the water and discarded his scuba gear before collapsing onto the beach in exhaustion. In one arm he held a black box. In the other he was holding a box of unsalted airplane peanuts.

A girl named Abby quickly ran over to see if he was alright. 

Garth struggled to his knees and nodded. "I've got good news and I've got bad news," he started, before coughing up a lungful of Indian Ocean water. "The good news is, when I was out there scuba diving," he pointed towards the ocean, "I happened to come across that airplane that disappeared a few weeks back." He held out his hand and proudly displayed the black box that he had plucked from the wreckage. The black box recorded the activity in the cockpit; it would probably reveal what caused the plane to crash in the first place.

"The bad news is, the only snacks I was able to find in the plane were these unsalted peanuts. Unsalted peanuts are the worst!"

Abby agreed. "That's pretty hot that you found the plane down there, though."

"Yeah, I guess," Garth shrugged. "I suppose these peanuts would be good on an ice cream sundae, you think?"

Abby nodded. 

"Tell you what, let me go pick up some ice cream and drop this black thing off at the station. I'll meet you back here in forty-five minutes and we can have some sundaes." Garth winked at the girl then walked over to his car.

At the supermarket Garth got some vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup, cherries, whipped cream, and a hand of bananas. While he was waiting in the checkout line he also grabbed the latest issue of Playboy. 

Garth was the kind of man who read Playboy. 

ice boaters read playboy

It had been a bitterly cold winter in upstate New York; one for the record books without a doubt. The coldest ever? No one could confirm- the record books were frozen shut. 

Growing up on the shores of Lake Ontario, Stan had fully accepted the numbing cold that faithfully accompanied each and every upstate New York winter. A few years back he had even purchased an ice boat that he would take out for joyrides along the frozen shore when the ice grew thick enough.

What Stan couldn't accept about the winter however, was the fact that as soon as the mercury in the thermometer dipped into the twenties and the ice became suitable for some ice boatin', all the girls disappeared indoors!

In the summer, Stan would use his sailboat to pick up ladies on the shore effortlessly and show them a good time out on the lake. In those summer months the beaches brimmed with beautiful gals. The winter was a different story however, and the closest thing it had to babes on the beach were the icy gales that blew in from the north. Brr. With each passing winter Stan grew increasingly frustrated that his ice boat didn't come anywhere close to achieving his summertime success rate. 

If only I could find a place where women embraced the cold and frolicked around in it like snow bunnies, Stan thought to himself one day on the lake. But does such a place even exist?

Right then a cold icy gale blew in from the north, and his eyes suddenly grew wide. Stan knew where he needed to go.

He needed to go to Canada.

Would he be able to make it all the way across the great lake to the land of maple syrup and polar bears and snow bunnies? Stan had never traveled that far in his little ice boat, however he decided that it was a risk that he and his hormones were willing to take.

That night, Stan gathered up the supplies he needed for his trip over international ice- food, drinking water, matches, camera, cologne, and last but not least, the latest Playboy magazine- reading material in the event that there was a line when he went through through customs, of course.

Naturally, Stan was the kind of man who read Playboy.

Miss February

June 1969

this nose smells playboy

Henry held the bottle of cologne up to his nose. As he inhaled deeply, he closed his eyes and shivered with delight.

"The wood notes in this one are, impeccable," Henry declared, matter of factly.

The cute girl behind the counter nodded in agreement. 

"Oh yes, and you'll notice that the sandalwood really compliments the-"

"The lavender base notes," Henry finished her sentence. He smiled. 

The girl behind the counter stood there with her mouth partially open in disbelief. She had never met a man with such a keen sense of smell before.

He wasn't done.

"You don't happen to have any more of those orange tic tacs I smell on your breath, do you?" 

The girl closed her mouth and reached beneath the counter and handed them to Henry.

"That's quite the nose you have there," she started, awkwardly. "You are quite good at.. smelling.. things."

He popped a few orange mints in his mouth. "Got it from my daddy," he responded proudly. 

The girl was suddenly overcome with a strong urge to eskimo kiss him so. But she refrained. That wouldn't be professional of her.

Henry could smell the scentual tension in the air. He handed the girl his business card. She held it in her sweaty palms and glanced up at him.

Henry winked. "I'll smell you later. Maybe?"

The girl blushed and nodded.

Later that night, Henry heard the phone ring. He figured it was the girl from behind the fragrance counter. But he didn't budge. He had his nose in the latest issue of Playboy.

Henry was the kind of man who read Playboy.

October 1970

Kimspired

While America is blessed with the asssinine alliteration that is Kim Kardashian, fifty years ago, England was blessed with one of its very own. 

Cathy "Cat" Cumberbatch was born in Conventry, England, on September 21, 1940. Growing up, her most notable asset without a doubt was the voluptuous blonde hair that cascaded from her head down to her ankles.  

Cat first came to the English tabloids' attention when her sex flip book leaked. (Flip books were what the blokes used to watch their smut on before VHS tapes were invented).

While the flip book fiasco wasn't the proudest of moments for Cat, nobody could deny that her "career" took off after that.

Soon after the flip book incident, Cat starred in Cooking Crumpets with the Cumberbatchs, a reality radio show that aired on Sunday afternoons also featuring her sisters, Cootie and Carmine. 

During this time she underwent a "marriage" with English footballer Kenny Tottenham that lasted almost three months, and played out very publicly on radios across the country. 

As her divorce was being finalized, Cat became romantically linked with Ellis Blackman- a fellow that the Beatles had requested to be the band's organist. Upon meeting Cat however, Ellis turned down the Beatles' invite so that he could focus on his new buxom blonde and maybe launch a solo career.

Once her divorce with Kenny was finalized Cat and Ellis were engaged; shortly after the two had a baby that they named Angry. 

In an attempt to get his solo career off the ground, Ellis recorded an album and had Cat pose nude on a motorcycle for the album cover.

This led to an endorsement deal with Triumph motorcycles, which led to the advertisement that you see above. 

This then led to Cat and her sisters coming out with the Cumberbatch Collection- a biker leather clothing line.

Cat and Ellis' wedding was scheduled for the following spring, however it never happened. A week before the wedding, Cat Cumperbatch, her fiance Ellis Blackman, and her son Angry Blackman rode off into the sunset on a motorcycle and were never seen again. 

Post mortem, Cat wasn't really missed because with all of the personal gain she sought while she was alive, her life served absolutely zero purpose to society.

Which begs the question: if history repeats itself, will we miss Kim Kardashian?

August 1966

sock game 4 lyfe

The terrified Sock Badger glanced back as he scampered the opposite direction. A gang of village boys wearing mismatched socks were chasing after him with pitchforks and torches. The boys wanted their socks back. 

Sock Badger knew that if he could make it to the edge of the wood he would be able to crawl into his hole for safety. If he didn't, he would probably be caught, killed, and taxidermied in some unbecoming pose.

As he was running for his life, Sock Badger contemplated his lifestyle choice. For years he had been sneaking into homes at night to steal half pairs of socks to decorate his underground lair with. He wasn't surprised that everyone in the village wanted him dead.

Fortunately for the Sock Badger, the angry mob chasing him had been so angry when they were getting ready that morning, they'd forgotten to put on their shoes and were finding it increasingly difficult to keep up with the fleeting rodent running through the dewey grass.

Sock Badger hurried down into his hole unscathed. As he stood there, panting, he looked around and admired all of his sock trophies that he spent his life accruing. 

He knew right then and there that he could never bring himself to quit the sock game.

September 1968

Where Woody at?

At the 71st annual Golden Globes, Woody Allen was awarded the prestigious Cecil B. DeMille award for outstanding contributions to the world of entertainment. 

Woody was unable to accept the award in person, unfortunately. 

Why, you ask?

Because the day before he got drunk off Smirnoff on a beach in Cabo and ended up getting himself stuck in a giant shell!

When reached for comment, members of the Hollywood Foreign Press were quite offended that Mr. Allen did not make the ceremony, calling the screenwriter/director/actor/comedian/author/playwright's actions "very shellfish."