Snowflakes and Testicles

Apparently Holler was in a mood.

Holler moonlights as a bartender on some Saturdays, and last Saturday, while I was at home with my Amish bonnet and prayers (okay, my POTC video and dirty, dirty fantasies), Holler was making a fast buck. She apparently arrived to said work night “in a mood” (I believe those were her words.)

Around 11:30, she says, she started slamming some beers and Kamikaze shots, fast enough to feel the call of the “Hell, yeah.” The Call of “Hell Yeah” is that brain blip which suddenly bright-lights ideas you normally wouldn’t think was a good idea, and makes you say, when asked if you want to do that: “Hell, yeah!” (It by no means implies that it’s now actually a good idea.)

Holler is blushing as she recounts the evening, but grinning all the same. “I was flashing everyone! I never flash anyone!”

Indeed she doesn’t. She was so much better than me at the Mardi Gras party, where I was flashing everyone. Twice. I laugh. “Did you get anything?”

“Twenty bucks.”

“Twenty bucks?” I yelped. Suddenly I feel like the Native American who sold half of Florida for some beads and blankets, only being the classic non-negotiator I am, I just got beads. (To be fair, I got a lot of beads. Just no where near twenty dollars worth. Twenty dollars would buy a lot more rum.)

“From a band member. He was from Colorado.”

That does explain quite a bit. I can’t imagine a local tipping so big. I’m not dissing Holler. Her boobs are fine. I’ve seen them often enough in the locker room. But even if Holler were stacked like Pam Anderson—she’d still not get twenty bucks from the average crowd member around here. She also said her “Spaghetti Guy” was totally living it up. (This would be the individual who is always asking her to teach him out to cook spaghetti. Right. He needs help learning to boil water. He’s so not obvious. *LOL*) He was groping left and right to his little heart’s content.

When Holler commented her boobs weren’t as fascinating (a.k.a. remarkably tits-worthy huge) as some of her co-workers, a bright young man hastened to reassure her that “Boobs are like snowflakes. They are all unique and beautiful.”

A man definitely interested in keeping the show going.

Holler then dared the young guy bartender, who she affectionately refers to as “Fetus”, that if she was flashing parts, he should flash parts. Her eyes are wide as she tells me this. “I didn’t think he would.”

I’m Amish, and even I know better than this. I cocked an eyebrow at her. “You dared a young man to show you his parts and you didn’t think he would?”

Co-worker#1 gasped, covering her mouth. “Are you saying he did?”

I laughed. “Oh, he did. I have no doubt in my mind.”

Holler grins. “Yes, he did. Whipped out his testicles without a by-you-leave. Shaved too. He said he’d shaved and polished them up for us.”

Apparently his tenacity had paid off for the day that a woman would ask him to “whip it out for a viewing.”

Holler is in stitches by now, as am I, imagining this scene. “I told him they looked very nice.” I howl. Not at the parts, personally, but the hilarity of the situation at hand.

I think I was then told this boob flashing was all my fault. I expect Thank You cards from Fetus and Spaghetti Guy.

I’m not sure this blog has a point, but again, I’m not sure any of my blogs have points. But I suppose I could ask: have you ever started a trend that you should get thank you cards for? Or do you have any “snowflake” philosophies like Boob Guy? If so, please share.