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Nulla vidua distringatur ad se maritandum & other Socio-cultural Fables

On an otherwise dank and dreary Friday evening, the PseudoLatino made a brief appearance at the dirge-like Holiday party for His current place of employment, the Bearded One in tow. If it gives my greatly empathic readership any notion of just how boring this party was, it turns out that Valerie and I quickly became the primary entertainment for the evening. And this not because Nurse Ratched climbed up on a table and started reciting the full 1215 text of the Magna Carta to the tune of "Old MacDonald had a Farm" (after a Tequila Sunrise and 2 stout Margaritas).

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As a matter of fact, people seemed pretty unimpressed by her recitation until she got to Article 8 and switched to the upper octave, baring her soul, if not her bosom, for that fetching non-rhyming couplet: "Nulla vidua distringatur ad se maritandum, dum voluerit vivere sine marito" arriving at a piercing, unwavering high B-flat on the final ma-ri-TOOOOOOOOOOOO. Totally HAWT!

[editor's note: it turns out that I've been mistranslating this line for years, having believed it to mean "No buxom hottie shall be forced to remarry unless she refuses to perform hot acts of steamy lesbian sex in the presence of the PseudoLatino" . . . rather than the oh-so-much-more-mundane "No widow shall be forced to marry so long as she wishes to live without a husband." *sigh*]

Shortly thereafter, our caché as entertainers rose greatly as my supervisor, and several members of the company Beer Club (sorry, but the first two rules of Beer Club are that you can't talk about Beer Club), decided that watching the Tango Terroriste and His Beautiful Compatriot dance would be more fun than tolerating any more of the DJ's ridiculous fucking party games. This says little about our dancing. I mean, even the biggest dullard amongst us would find Dancing with the Stars a more entertaining choice than removing one's own genitalia with a rusty butterknife. I realize that only a true moron could watch this bloodless excuse for entertainment willingly and with a straight face, but the simple truth is that a brief lapse into drug abuse and alcoholism can help one repress memories of the horrid Dancing with the Stars. A missing vagina, on the other hand, will always a missing vagina be.

Ummmm . . . where was I?

Oh yes.

Through no merit of our own, we became the evening's entertainment, dancing first to Gotan Project's Chunga's Revenge. Perhaps needless to say, we were a big hit for an audience of soon-to-be-no-longer-employed engineers and their bored, annoyed, Harlequin-romance-reading housewives. I must admit that it was fun to bust a few moves and be carried along by the Bearded One's exhibitionist tendencies (on which more later). We got lots of props, had a pretty decent time, and I was informed by every guy I work with that Valerie is "hot."

No shit?

Thanks for pointing that out, doods! What with all her show-boating and philosophical perversions, I hadn't noticed the utterly perfect posterior, the long, limber, flexible legs, the total lack of bodyfat (well, except for those holiday love handles we discussed in a previous post), or the sexy tramp stamp she has on her lower back--a multi-colored realization of the goddess Artemis devouring a fire-breathing snake with her toothy vagina . . . can you say "feminazi symbolism?"

Nope. Hadn't noticed. I missed all of it. Hadn't picked up on a single thing. Nada. Nichts. Null.

Well, dancing with this cocoa goddess apparently signals to my coworkers that, amongst other things, I'm an ultra-virile manly-man; an über-macho stud-amongst-studs. I guess we all knew this already, yes? No one would dare disagree with such an assessment, right? I mean . . . other than perhaps my viagra dealer. Or the guy who makes my toupees. Or the woman who tailors my custom made Depend Undergarments. But everyone else? They damn well BETTER agree, goddammit!

I suppose I can't give these guys tooooo hard a time. My entire department (some 70 souls)--many of whom have been employed at this famous, century-old bastion of American Industry for 20+ years--recently discovered that their jobs are being terminated over the next three months. It turns out that Yours Truly, the sole contractor in the bunch, just got a 6-month extension on His current contract and will probably be the Last Man Standing at the company, which sold out its loyal employees in the name of feigning enhanced profitability to maximize the company's apparent value as a short-term acquisition.

Gotta love the American Corpocracy, dontcha? Next thing you know, we'll start to base our national environmental policy on what's good for Big Oil!

Oh.

Wait.

Ummmmm . . . . Nevermind. Forget I said that. It was a mistake. I was just confused. Just for a second. Just momentarily. Don't wanna end up in Gitmo with some guy shoving a hot curling iron up my ass, telling me I'm an eco-terrorist trying to bring "my" country to its knees, asking who all my terrorist friends are, do I?

Pah! Whatever. The upshot of all this is that I had a reasonably good time, considering it was a company party.

The Valerina, however, had other things on her mind. The night was still young, we were hungry, and she knew for a fact that several stages at The Lodge had poles on them. And no, I don't mean people from Poland. So we fired up the PL-Mobile and headed off into the rainy, cold, desolate night. I had been to The Lodge only twice previously, the last time being several years ago when I was invited to a lesbian birthday party (yes, I truly DO live a charmed life). It wasn't as fun as drag-queen mud wrestling, not by a long shot, but it was certainly amusing . . . particularly when my ex-girlfriend called in the middle of a lapdance, causing my phone to vibrate at precisely the moment when Sable--her real name, I'm sure--decided to grind upon my left thigh. After her initial shock, Sable quickly synchronized her grinding to coincide with the telephonic vibrations.

Talent takes many forms.

On this evening, there were to be no lapdances--either for Yours Truly or the Bearded One, but that didn't stop it from being well worth the price of admission. As one expects from The Lodge, particularly on a weekend evening, the eye-candy was top notch . . . with far (far!) less store-bought hardware than one finds in the usual Adult Cabaret. Nurse Ratched had obtained for us seats right next to one of the side stages, so we were able to examine the goods at first hand. Apparently Her Highness found the view every bit as pleasant as did I, for several Buttery Nipples into our meal she springs to her feet, folds a dollar in half, places it between her teeth and stands before the leggy blonde on the stage next to us, waiting patiently for her current spin about the pole to come to an end, which presently it does. Not content to have Legs simply remove the dollar from her teeth, Nursey Nurse turns her back to the stage and bends over backwards, resting her elbows upon the stage and looking directly up--or so it seemed from my angle--into the scarcely-covered, gaping vaginal maw of The Blonde, who was now smiling broadly. Although we were seated rather far back in the main room of the club, the Valerina's shenanigans were not without an audience, for, aside from Yours Truly, the outcome of this serendipitous turn of events was being followed with rapt attention by two entire tables full of freshly-scrubbed frat-boys whose eyes had only too recently set about popping from their vacant little heads.

Did I not say that we'd return to her exhibitionist tendencies? Am I not a man of my word? Indeed.

Well . . . after a brief pause during which Leggy Legs resituated herself astride Nursey Nurse, the PseudoLatino and the Kollegiate Krew were treated to some white-on-black Wet Dream Type activity involving the mouth-to-mouth transfer of the Dollar Bill in question, some whispering in one another's ears, and other not-work-safe gyrational gymnastics which most certainly, ummmm . . . well . . . which will be causing some hair to grow on MY palms, if no one else's.

It was at about this time that I started drinking hard liquor.

And though I'm sure you're all hoping the story will blossom into something even more explicit, or tawdry, or worse . . . or hoping at least that there's gonna be some extended sequences of drunken misbehaving . . . I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint. The truth of the matter is that shortly after this awe-inspiring exchange of American currency it was time for Last Call and the PseudoLatino took His partner home to sleep off her Buttery Nipples. The last I saw her she was ascending the stairs to her apartment, giggling loudly and asking me--quite loudly--if I could think of an appropriate Stripper Name with which to christen her. I was about to convince her of "Sassafras . . . 'Sassy' for short" when three of her downstairs neighbors opened their doors and invited me, shotguns in hand, to find my way off the premises post-haste. Oooops.

As I drove away, I could here her asking their opinions about stripper names, too. And giggling.

There was one MAJOR upside to her craziness this evening: photos. Yup. Photographs. The Bearded One and I are currently in negotiations to determine whether (1) I will post the photos I took of the events with my new iPhone or (2) she will pay me USD $10,000 to destroy them. I'm betting on the $10K.

Peace and Buttery Nipples to One and All,
---the PL

Posted by earwicker at December 14, 2007 11:59 PM