It started out simply. Two old friends, meeting up in the city for some Milwaukee’s Best and beer nuts.
Paul talked ad nauseum about his new bride, Pricilla. Talked about how she picked up his dirty socks with a broad smile on her face and even wore a skimpy apron while cooking his meatloaf. If he brought her roses and Vodka, she would even make love to his anus.
Samuel, having been single for the last eight years, sulked a bit. He hated hearing about his friends’ good fortune with the ladies, while he was left to sleep alone, with nothing more than his pit bull to spoon. Though it was a step up from the iguana he tried to recruit as a temporary bedmate.
Paul didn’t like to see his friend look so sullen. He thought Samuel had some great qualities that many women would be attracted to. For example, the fact that he was the quietest farter Paul had ever met. (Though, were silent-but-deadlies any better?) And that he didn’t live with his mother. (Mostly that’s attributed to the fact that she’s dead.) And that he had a large weapons collection, with which to keep any woman feeling safe and protected. (Paul still wasn’t entirely sure why Samuel needed a bazooka just for fox hunting, though.)
But still, Paul couldn’t see any reason for Samuel to continue his dry spell any longer and became determined to find him a girlfriend. Or at the very least, a mute with a clean vagina upon which Samuel could practice, maybe get his groove back. So when they left the bar in favor for some totally non-gay window shopping, Paul broached the subject.
“Say, Samuel, what types of broads do you like?” Paul asked as they ducked into an Army Navy store, where Samuel darted straight to a counter displaying knives.
“Well, like I always say: I like my women like I like my ice cubes,” Samuel murmured absently, running a calloused thumb over the blade of a Bowie.
Paul laughed. “Frosty exterior with a piece of fruit in the center?” he asked, curling his fingers into exaggerated air quotes when he said “center,” and recalling that Samuel was really into freezing tiny pieces of nectarines in his ice cubes, which added pizazz to his signature summer Sangria.
“No,” Samuel replied, with a slight scoff. “Frozen in a tray,” he answered, sliding his credit card over to the cashier. “By the dozen.”