Sorry for the lack of updates. There’s no excuse for the neglect, but I have my reasons.

The details will bore you, so I won’t keep running my mouth. Overtime at my regular job. Moonlighting to supplement my income. A new relationship.

Don’t get me wrong. I still love to write. But I love spending time with the lady. She’s one classy doll. Easy on the eyes. And I’m crazy about her. Unlike the computer monitor I’m staring at right now. Which means I’d rather be looking at her, see?

I’ll be getting around to posting here when I get around to it. But don’t worry. I ain’t throwing in the towel. I still like entertaining all of you crazy mugs.

See ya when I see ya.

Tags: love · relationships · work

She was 17, dating some punk of the same age. The punk had a short rap sheet of petty crimes and criminal acts of idiocy. Typical adolescent bad boy attraction. Rebellion against an inattentive father. Her story: they argued. He punched her three times in the face and kicked her in the gut. She ran away and got in another guy’s car.

The other guy was a 21-year-old “friend.” A chump who always saved the damsel in distress, but never got rewarded for his efforts. A sap with a tear-stained shoulder and a box of never used, never will be used condoms. Captain Save-A-Ho.

Captain Save-A-Ho drove Jail Bait off into the horizon. On the other side of the horizon was my club. They came seeking sanctuary. Save-A-Ho was a regular. I’d never seen Jail Bait around. I inspected her face and her midsection, which was exposed thanks to a skimpy tube top. No bruises. No swelling. No footprint on her gut. Not a fucking scratch. I pulled Save-A-Ho to the side: “I can’t have this jail bait in my joint. Take her to her parents.”

Save-A-Ho tried to explain to me why it would be better to stash the broad in my club. I half listened, watched the broad text messaging non-stop. She took a phone call. Jail Bait covered her mouth while speaking, kept her voice low. I heard: “Is he with her right now?” followed by, “Fucking bastard.”

Moments later, Jail Bait got off the phone, then demurely asked Save-A-Ho, “Can you drive me to the police station?” She wanted to make a report of domestic battery. Put a case on the punk.

They thanked, waved, drove away. I chuckled.

Poor Save-A-Ho. The sap was blind, unable to connect the dots: Jail Bait and Punk were on the outs. Punk found himself a new broad. Jail Bait got jealous, confronted Punk. An argument ensued. Jail Bait stormed away. Later, upon hearing that Punk was with the new chick, Jail Bait decided that revenge would be a false police report.

Facts undigested by Save-A-Ho: the hole in his back window and the lack of injuries on Jail Bait indicated that Punk, while guilty of vandalism, was innocent of battery. Save-A-Ho was an unwitting accessory to Jail Bait’s connivance. He wasn’t a hero. He was a tool.

Tags: domestic violence · nightclub · relationships