UPDATED: And Now For Something Completely Different

UPDATE: The missing #6 term - hot sweet potato tits - has now been added to the story. Where's my Newberry Award?

It’s been a while since I’ve felt all that creative, which accounts for the sheer lack of posting lately. But tonight, I visited Tits List, one of my favorite places to go on the net. From time to time Tits McGee, said sites web madam, sorts through the search terms that led people to her site. The list this go-around was:

1) fucking my mom's tits all night long

2) undead tit photos

3) big christian tits

4) bring it on sex tits

5) my favorite tits

6) hot sweet potato tits

7) pissing fatty

8) vaginal hump day

9) tits in my pants

10) titty parade

I was so inspired by the list (which oddly lacked a #6) that I wrote you a short story with each term in the list, in order. I hope you enjoy it.

As I turned the corner I heard a man in the bar say, "I was fucking my mom's tits all night long." I was stunned. Not so much because someone was fucking their mom's tits all night long -- which is just ewww- but that someone was saying it so matter-of-factly. I mean, if I was fucking my mom's tits all night long, I wouldn't be telling anyone, if you know what I mean. And I think you do.

On my left were a table of goths. In high school, goth kids always kind of reminded me of demon mimes – you just can’t take them seriously. The goths were looking at pictures of women’s breasts on one of their I-Pods. One particularly surly one remarked that the pix were nice, if you liked “undead tit photos or big Christian tits."

I hustled away before we moved into necrophilia territory. I’m open-minded, but I do like to sleep at night.

But then again, this club was filled with all kinds of fun and clearly disturbing degenerates. Bondage gear was de rigueur, except for posers like me. Over in one corner I heard raised voices. An oafish man who looked entirely out of place in the bar was bearing down on a small woman in her early thirties. He cursed up a storm. The woman calmly looked at him and snarled that if he didn’t leave her along she would take him out. Angry beyond belief for reasons that were not clear to me, he exclaimed “bring it on sex tits.” Moving with unbelievable speed the woman grabbed a beer bottle, smacked it in half on the table like you see in the movies, and pounced on him in a way that said die motherfucker, die. Note to self: Never call a woman “sex tits.” Thankfully, Security was on them in no time, dragging the bloody and cursing combatants out of the club. Whatever kind of tits are your favorites, my favorite tits do not belong to women wielding weapons, regardless of the provocation. Unless it's a James Bond movie. And with that, I am sure you would totally agree.

As I moved out to the outside deck, which inexplicably had a beach volleyball court that served no purpose other than that of a very large ashtray, I headed to the bar and got a drink. Since I was feeling a bit peckish, I went to a small hole in the wall to order from the kitchen. Not your typical "hole in the wall," but a real wall where a trannie named Tits took your order. "I'll have a hot sweet potato, Tits," I said before I was handed a backed sweet potato oozing with butter. Yes, real butter. I was in heaven.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a woman of mythical proportions in the corner pushing her body between two potted pants, crouching and clearly peeing. This pissing fatty – a behemoth of a woman dressed like a Valkyrie and showing way too much skin – then fell into the puddle of her own piss. Wow, I thought. This is going to be a fun night or one where I will regret ever leaving the house.

Perhaps it was the sight of her peeing, but I now needed to pee badly. If I could have held it would have. I knew the bathroom would be disgusting and likely a place where, let’s call it shenanigans of various sorts, took place. But I had to pee and I couldn’t pee in the plants, Helga was blocking the way. So into the bathroom I went. Eyes forward, head slightly down and breathing through the mouth, I made it to a urinal. I looked forward and saw “Wednesday is vaginal hump day” etched into the metal sheet covering the wall. What did that mean? All sorts of off ideas popped into my mind. I remembered this commercial from the 70s where it said “Wednesday is spaghetti night.” That random memory made me laugh and brought me back to the task at hand. After finishing my business I went to wash my hands and hurried out the door and back into the club.

While I waited at the bar for another drink, I was next to two older women dressed in full biker gear. But instead of talking about Harleys or drunken bar fights in Sturgis or Hollister, they were talking about their grandchildren. This was just one of those places, were all sorts of people congregate. The night was looking better. But then I was yanked back to reality when one of the women loudly exclaimed that her ass was getting “flabby.” It was like I have “tits in my pants.” Okay, I heard enough. Time to move along.

On the stage, women and men/former men somewhere on what I call the “pre-and post-op continuum,” were lining up while the crowd hooted and hollered. The emcee, a large black man in drag doing his damnedest to channel Pam Grier in Coffey, announced a “titty parade.” At that point, tops came off, except from the drag queens without real fake breasts. The “titty parade” left the stage and soon after a conga line snaked through the bar with more than a few men and women from the bar joining in the festivities. Of course, I was one of them. Nights like tonight are the reasons that you go out at night, just to join the fun and the freaks.