Dairy Queens - The Ghost of Conquest Past

The other day “Mehr Arsch Bitte” (or “more arse please” as he’s rightfully known) and I were dragging our wounded backsides home from another seemingly eternal day of employment when our travels were injected with a little pin prick to the pubic purse. We were on our way into Dairy Queen to purchase our respective wives an ice cream treat for putting up with our inflated work schedule and/or generally dealing with our absence (ass-scent). Two luxurious ladies were making their way out of the store - I held the outside door for them (chivalrous cannibal that I am, wearing a really gay Orange shirt) and Arsch proceeded to hold open the inside door for the approaching dairy queens. The two lithe little things looked at Arsch, the blonde in front said “Hiiiiiy!” and a small amount of tiny talk exchanged hands like quick currency while I stood stupidly by with the outer door in my paws. Arsch’s face went suddenly flush and then pale as my ass end in winter – his eyes had met those of the brunette behind the babbling blonde. Arsch was “having a moment”. He had a visitation of the vaginal kind.

I’m a pretty observant little kitten as a rule but I’m also exceedingly good at meowing the wrong thing at the wrong time, so I blurted out the obligatory “no worries, I’ll just stand here and hold the door all day – guffaw, guffaw”. Blondie looked me over like one would a roadside porcupine (“Get that prick away from me!”). The two passed by my foot in mouth and the dutifully held front entrance. For once, my motor mouth falling out of gear managed to actually avoid a confrontation rather than provoke one. I had driven them away with a lash of my mighty tongue! Arsch stood with the inside door still in hand – I started to laugh at him – “Who was THAT?” I prodded. He had just seen a ghost of conquest past – it is fun to share this moment with a friend – not only does it give you gracious insight, affords you one more inside joke to roast the bugger with when the coals are cold but it also yields beloved blog material.

The story goes that when Arsch was new to this calloused city he fancied himself a bit of a man-whore. Blondie was a buddy’s babe and the brunette was a peripheral friend thrown into the mix – enter Arsch and a few blasts of Jägermeister and you’ve got the perfect ingredient for a backseat bra assault. All was not well with Arsch’s panty party however, the Brunette and the boy did exchange fluids but a few days later he met his future wife, shunning the battered Brunette before seatbelt outline had faded from her fine behind. She felt betrayed that she was a backburner babe but it’s not like he went from gal to gal, he settled on the Wife of Arsch just a short time later. Surely she could’ve forgiven him for that? Did she have a right to feel chapped, 4 years off the burner?

We made our way to the front counter, he was pretty shaken up and my sides hurt from berating him with taunts and hassle tassels. We bought the frozen treats for the wives and headed for home safe in the knowledge that the Brunette probably thinks we were dairy queens based on my super queer choice of dress shirt.

iPod played "REM - Orange Crush" while posting