The Mock Dock

So, your boy Holmes had himself a date on Saturday night.  It didn’t go quite as I had planned.  Let me tell you about it.

I pulled up to the young lady’s house and stepped out of my 1987 Datsun hatchback.  As I walked up to the front stoop, I felt a twinge of anticipation as I depressed the button to ring the bell.  As my date’s father (yeah you heard me….father) opened the door, he told me that the dog’s name was Holmes.

“That’s my name, too.”  I said as I walked in to the foyer of this Victorian home.

As my date walked down the stairs, I was stricken by her long, raven tresses and alabaster skin.  Her subtle movements and inherent grace were evident in ever step.  Each step created more of a reaction… my palms started to sweat… my heart beat faster… I  lost my breath… fell on the floor…. and lost all control of my bodily functions.

In her graciousness, my date ran to the kitchen to get some paper towels, but it was far too late.  By this time I had emptied my bowels and stopped caring.  So, I took off my pants and made love to the sofa cushions.

Her father screamed, “I am going to call the police!”

So, I ripped out the phone cords and closed all the curtains, and yelled, “If you will all behave, we will all get out of here alive!”

So, as I sit here in my jail cell, I have only a vision of my date’s beauty to get me through the night.  Each time I think of her, my palms start to sweat… my heart beats faster… and I vomit.

She was a slight girl, raven-haired and full of life. As she trundled up the snow-covered sidewalk, eyes glistening against the sunny, Wisconsin winter day… hope, prosperity, joy filled my heart and my world-wearied soul. Breezing past me, jacket cold from the harsh breeze, a simple look, a wink in return, and she scuddled off to play with her newest set of Lego toys.

Fast forward 11 years… as she pulls away for a night out with her friends, I realize that my little girl will be an adult in a few short months. Life is pulling her away. Later that night, as the door bell rings, I know that all of that hope is gone. The officer informed me that during the raid he recognized her, her addled body, frought with needle marks, blood pouring from her nose…

HOLY CRAP….HUGE DILDO!!!!

Last night I went to a local barbershop for a haircut.  Longing for the  quick-witted exchanges and neighborly conversation that is so often portrayed on TV and in film (insert jog down memory lane of Floyd’s shop in Andy Griffith or the ever-talented Eddie Murphy’s multiple personalities in Coming to America), I gazed at the peppermint pole  and opened the door.

As I went in the overwhelming scent of jasmine-laced candle wax and Freesia pierced my nostrils, boring a hole directly in the back of my head.  As Yanni played with the passion of the ancient Greeks (insert buggery joke here), I heard, “Hellooooo, Welcome to Franco’s.”

Now, as I peered through the vines surrounding the voice, I realized that Franco’s was pronounced….Fraaahhhhnkos…..not Fraynkos…. my bad.

Anyway… the haircut was pretty good.  I have no idea why I had to take of my pants for the shave , but still… good razor work by that Fraaahnko.

All in all… I found a new place to get a good haircut and have my self-esteem boosted…at least that is what I tell my therapist…even if it didn’t come with the gritty conversation about sports and girls…but a real-life conversation about fists and lap dogs.