Hell Hath No Fury Like A Booty Call Scorned

An old friend of mine was in town last night. You’d recognize his name were I gauche enough to reveal it, but I’ll simply refer to him as the Carnival Tycoon so as to protect his identity.

At any rate, it was an enjoyable evening. Either one of us is perfectly capable of closing down any given drinking establishment on our own, so it goes without saying that we were the last two to stumble out of Boobs-a-Poppin’ shortly after 2 a.m.

“My Hammy… My Hammy,” the Carnival Tycoon muttered as we climbed into a waiting cab.

“What? What is this?” I demanded, while waving off an aging white hip-hop fashionista who was trying to sell us crystal meth. “What are you going on about?”

He turned toward me and grabbed my lapels. “Moons! Over My Hammy! I must have them! Goddammit, am I speaking Greek?” Then, while whacking the driver on the back of his head: “Cabbie! Denny’s! Now!”

“Wait just a second,” I said. “This Denny’s place — is it the one with the Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘n’ Fruity thing?”

“No,” said C.T. “You’re thinking of IHOP.”

“Lucky for you that it’s not. Driver? Carry on.”

Shortly thereafter, we were ensconced in a king-sized booth at the closest Denny’s. The Carnival Tycoon, of course, ordered Moons Over My Hammy, while I settled on something called a Western Burger. I’d never been in a Denny’s before and to be quite honest, I found it to be one of the most dismal eateries I’d ever patronized.

The lone bright point is that two of Boobs-a-Poppin’s dancers, Shaquila and DeMenthe, were dining at a nearby table.

“Good evening, ladies,” I said, flashing them a winning smile. “Nice to see you again.”

“Fuck off, Carver,” DeMenthe hissed. “We’re off the clock.”

“Where in the hell are my Moons Over My Hammy!” the Carnival Tycoon wailed to no one in particular.

“Christ,” I said to C.T. “Who knew they were lesbians?”

“My Hammy,” he said.

At that moment, I received a text from an unknown source. The message was intriguing to say the least: “Call me baby, I’m lonely,” followed by a local phone number.

“I better see who this is,” I said, showing C.T. the message. “Sounds like there’s a damsel in distress who needs some good loving from yours truly.”

“And I need my Moons Over My Hammy! Nurse! Where is that goddamn nurse?!”

The phone rang twice before a woman with a husky voice answered. “Oz?” she said.

“Maybe,” I said. “Who is this?”

“It’s Maude.”

“Maude?”

Maude Demaine. My husband’s out of town and I need it, baby. I need it bad…”

“Sainted Mother of Nixon,” I gasped, ending the call immediately.

“Who was that?” C.T. asked.

“Never mind,” I said.

“Did they have an update on the status of my Moons Over My Hammy?”

“No.”

My phone rang — it was Maude calling back. Against my better judgment, I answered.

“Yes?”

“What happened, baby?”

“I hung up.”

Momentary silence. And then: “Why?”

“Listen, now’s not a good time.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I’m out with an old friend. My Western Burger will be here any moment.”

“Your what?”

“My Western Burger.”

“What the fuck is that?”

“I really don’t know. A burger with crispy onion chips. And steak sauce, I think.”

“Wait.”

“Yes?”

“You’d rather eat a hamburger than come see me? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Absolutely.”

“You son of a bitch. I thought we had something special.”

“Well, you thought wrong.”

Insane screaming on Maude’s end. And then: “Enjoy your pulled pork sandwich, you fat fuck!”

The line went dead, and I buried my face in my palms.

“Seriously…” C.T. said.

“Why me?” I said. “And what on earth is a pulled pork sandwich?”

“…where in god’s name is my Moons Over My Hammy?”

Fortunately, the waitress arrived with our repast at that very moment. The food was horrible but filling, and it wasn’t long before we were homeward bound — me to my palatial estate, and C.T. to his five-star hotel. All in all, it was a good night. Though I could’ve done without the nauseating booty call from Demaine’s wife. Oh well. Just the sort of thing one has to put up with when one has what the ladies want. And trust me; I have it in spades.

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Categories: Culture, Dating, Drugs, Food, Idiots, Leisure

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