Popped up on a Facebook Memory-prompt. So, as Okdumber winds down and pink no longer adorns defensive tackles and wide receivers’ socks and sweatbands, it’s time once again for the guys to go ask their moms how to make sure when they ask their brides, daughters, girlfriends, sisters and the like – and please, gentlemen, remember to ask separately of your wives and your mistresses, have they done the self-exam scam…and then the gals can turn-tables and say, “Bend, over, Boyo!”
*(The following is intended to garner me brickbats. I don’t mind. I think it needs saying – again.)
It’s sometime in early Fall of 1982. I motorcycle by my parents’ house en route to Mary Esther, Florida, hard by Pensacola, which is a long way from Sanford halfway down the state. Taking ‘the scooter’ will save me beau coup bucks in gas money. I go inside – the front door remains unlocked after near thirty years, though the street has been paved for a dozen years now – a shame that. Dad is just getting up from breakfast and mom turns around to see why he is wearing a big grin.
“Fish tomorrow?” he asks. I shake my head.
“Headed to Pensacola and won’t be back until Sunday. Can you take Monday off so we don’t have to put up with traffic while we murder specks?”
“Sure.” He puts on…
View original post 1,709 more words