Yep, that my friends, sums up The Boy’s Las Vegas extravaganza.

You see, The Boy went to sin heaven with a group of about twenty-five guys for our son’s bachelor party send-off. These guys (kids really) range in the age of 24-27 and you gotta know The Boy *cough, cough* is slightly older than that. Translation? He came home broken with a voice that sounds like he swallowed some glass. <- Meh, that’s something I didn’t mind because it’s actually kind of sexy. Heheheh

Anyway, back to the list. The arrest? Apparently couldn’t be avoided according to the eyewitnesses. Of course, The Boy wasn’t among them which was strange because he said he was going on this little junket with the sole purpose of chaperoning.

Hmm…

The hospitalization? Again, unavoidable as you know, imminent death is a great incentive to visit the ER. According to The Boy’s reckoning the doctors couldn’t decided if this chaperoned patient of theirs had poisoned himself with alcohol or food. (one bag of IV and a sober night cured him)

Hmm…

Now, for my personal favorite. Three worn out showgirls. Most guys coming home to their wives after such a journey – and I do mean journey because this was no trip – would have left the girls off their list of discussion…well, probably the midget too, but not The Boy. No siree. That’s what I love about him. He puts it all out there.  

Gee, what can I say about these poor girls? You’d think after working your ass off in a hard business like show business you’d get to sedately retire and chill-out in a quiet condo by the beach. But no such luck. It seems these old gals step off the stage and become party planners. In terms of the list? They worked as concierge for The Boy’s pile of testosterone busting insomniacs. According to The Boy you usually only get one planner per group, but his to-be-chaperoned-crowd managed to go through three ladies and then came the midget.

Hmm…

I wouldn’t have been so freaked about this little person taking over. In fact, if it had been left up to my imagination I would have assumed that these showbiz gals had a wicked sense of humor. But Noooo. The Boy had to elaborate. Consequently, my freaking-out came when I heard this sentence fall from The Boy’s lips.

“…But then, this midget dude in a pair of pajamas gets into the stretch and goes for the stripper pole.”

LMAO!!! Only in Vegas.

M.


Boom, boom, I see your hiney.
Boom, boom, it’s nice and shiny.
Boom, boom, if you don’t hide it.
Boom, boom, I’m gonna bite it.

That’s what I was singing yesterday after The Boy came in from fixing my staghorn fern. A couple of things to note before I tell you why. First off, I can’t spend too long writing this post because I’m on a self-imposed deadline and I might have to fire me if I don’t meet my target date. Now, as to why The Boy was out in a hundred and four degree weather in the middle of the blazing afternoon sun yesterday fixing my plant? Well, Steven King and his harem decided to take up residence and turn my fourteen-year-old leafy beauty into a Swiss cheese condo of horticultural disaster for the purposes of bedding down with his beauties.

I know, right? I couldn’t believe he was screwing in all the peat-moss either, but the furry little bastard was. Trust me. The bits of flying tufts and the whole structure swinging like a dizzy pendulum was hard to ignore. So, I insisted The Boy go out yesterday afternoon and chase them out. I begged him to re-stuff the interior with more peat and then wrap it in wire so Casanova and his hussies would have to go back to their more-than-adequate pine needle hut in the oak tree.

Easy-peasy, right? For me because I was sitting in the cool AC while The Boy sweat his ass off trying to fix the darn thing. I watched until I heard the swear words he growled begin to get raunchy. That’s when I went back to my computer.  Ten minutes later he comes in and when I see him I actually feel bad. His shirt is plastered to him like second-skin and well, the rest of him is dripping wet too. Here’s the conversation:

Me, “Gee, it’s must be really hot out.”

Him, Glares at me.

Me,“Is it all fixed?”

Him, “No. I need to change then I’ll finish it up.”

Me, *scratches head* “You’re going to change before you finish? You’ll ruin another outfit.”

Him, “Yeah, it’s a piss off.”

Me, Frowning until he walks by and I can see his whole ass. And I do mean the whole enchilada as his boxers are soaked so they’re transparent and the entire seat of his pants are torn and hanging in tatters down to the back of his thighs. I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing.

Him, “Haha, funny. You want to fix the damn thing?”

Me, “Sorry, what happened?”

Him, “I was worried the little prick would pee on the pliers. He’s done that before, so I put them in my back pocket and when they got stuck…” he leaves off with a shrug.

Me, Thinking, Your temper flared and you yanked them out so hard you tore your own pants. Delightful. “Temper got the best of you, huh?”

Him, “No, it was those beady black eyes staring at my arse that’s freaking me out. I could swear he was laughing at me.”  
He got halfway to our room when he stopped.  “F*#k!”

Me, “What?”

Him, “I left the pliers out there. What do you want to bet that rodent’s already peed on them?”

Me keeping silent because I don’t like parting with my hard earned cash. I kept that thought to myself as I walked of humming that song.

Boom, boom. ;)

Riley

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