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July 22, 2005

Oh, My...'m I ever gonna keep PG-17c from going ballistic over this one? Hmmmm...

After I got out of the Army the *first* time, I had a bartending gig at the local Large Chain Motel and Cocktail Lounge, which was Large Chain enough to have *two* bars. Mine was the "party" bar, so-called because it was part of the conference suite usually booked for large, festive weekend shindigs, such as umptieth birthday parties, wedding receptions or the local pols receiving a particularly grandiose campaign contribution.

But on weeknights, it was a nice, quietly contemplative joint, not unlike Callahan's (especially if you peered into the shadows after a few of my Perfect Rob Roys). Mostly regulars, with just the right sprinkling of passers-through to keep things light. One Friday night, I was pretty much alone except for a small gaggle of secretarials enjoying some liquid decompression, when in strolls Bobby, the local heart-breaker. Imagine (a young) John Travolta crossed with Ben Affleck, then add a dash of Leonardo diCaprio.

And just as shallow.

One of the secretarials couldn't take her eyes off him. Bobby made eye contact, zeroed in and walked slowly over. Before the secretarial could say a word, Bobby took her hand and purred his patented, "I'll do anything -- absolutely anything -- that you want me to do. No matter how kinky. For a hundred dollars. On one condition."

To her credit, the secretarial kept what was left of her cool and asked what the condition was.

Bobby replied, "You have to tell me what you want me to do in just three words."

The secretarial didn't even hesitate. She grabbed her purse and slowly counted out five $20 bills (I mentally kissed off the chance of a decent tip for the night). Then she wrote her address on the back of a barnap and pressed the bills and the barnap into Bobby's hand.

She looked deeply into his eyes and slowly, meaningfully said,

Punchline in Extended Entry. And no drooling on the keyboards, Ladies...

"Clean my house."