So there I was at Target, land of the wrong toilet paper and the endcap suck-me-in (hey-- when CHINATOWN in widescreen DVD is on sale for 4 bucks, I can't not buy it), tasked with picking up The Wife's latest Ambien refill and my own 4 dollar latte. I wander the store for 15 minutes as the Indian scrip chick counts out the pills, I grab some milk and half-and-half, a crate of Goldfish, and an 8-pack of wiffle balls (aka, "the usual") and get the pills and head for checkout.
I'm in line behind a woman in a tennis skirt and sleeveless top.
"Nice legs" I note to myself as she empties her cart. She has the really well-toned legs of a woman who has played tennis or run regularly for years.
"Nice ass" I note as she stoops over to pick up some larger items from her cart.
"Wow-- nice rack, too" I think to myself as she turn to profile and I see the way her boobs -- likely aftermarket store-bought yabbos, but that's totally cool -- stretch the top just enough to be undeniably noticeable but not so much that they scream "LOOK AT MY BIG FAKE TITS".
I sip my coffee and look away, remembering not to pull a George Costanza and be caught staring to 5 or 20 or 53 seconds as if I'm looking at one of those 3D "picture in the static pattern" things they sell in mall kiosks. Steal a glance, look away... swipe a glimpse, check your watch... sneak a peek, examine some item on the checkout line... we males know this routine instinctively.
"Pretty hair," I think silently as her just above the shoulder bob flounces slightyl as she works back and forth, unloading the cart.
Finally she's done, she exchanges some pleasantry with the check-out monkey, and she glances around, and we make eye contact -- casual random thing. No problem. She smiles and nods that checkout line greeting, and I return the half-bored nod and smile to complete the social exchange.
"Huh... a little older than I was expecting, based upon the bod and hair... still... really pretty lady."
Sneak a glance, look away...
I look at the assortment of items on the conveyor: some socks, package of lunchmeat, bottle of marinade.
And two large boxes of Depends.
Somewhere in the reptilian part of my brain stem I here a double blast of the horn -- "STAND DOWN! STAND DOWN! FALSE ALARM! SHE'S A GRANNY!"
Oy.
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dirtier and older man by the minute B
10 comments:
Perhaps Boobina has an elderly parent living with her?
Ya never know.
So Brett-- Betty White or Bea Arthur, what's your poison?
Imagine what she thought when she saw your wiffle balls?
Aw, that's sweet. You're an equal-opportunity lech.
"That's a hot older lady."
"Would you do her?"
"Depends."
This whole post is written in some weird parallel language. I understood about three words of it. What in dog's hell is a wiffle ball?
Wiffle™ ball is a trademarked brand name for a baseball like game using a lightweight plastic ball with perforations on one half of the ball (none of the other half) -- the perfs impart wild aerodynamic effects which make it possible for anyone to throw a curve ball that breaks 5 or 6 feet in its trajectory.
"Wiffle ball" in baseball phraseology has come to mean pretty much ANY perforated practice ball -- almost always with perfs on BOTH halves of the ball, like oversized practice golf balls. These perfed balls do not travel far when hit with a bat, and are too light and soft to do any harm if they hot a human -- even at max velocity. For that reason we like to use them for batting practice drills with developing hitters.
After some amount of use, the plastic can start to break, requiring balls to be retired and replaced over time, so I tend to pick up an 8-pack bag of wiffle balls once a month in the spring.
Everything else surely was clear as mud, even for a plug-ignorant Brit.
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B
Ha! Your post almost had me pee my pants. But I don't have any Depends lying around so that was that.
Yeah, who says she was a Granny?
But the fake boobs, totally uncool.
Well, I did just see a teen pushing a stroller with a shirt saying "GMILF".
It's catching on!
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