Eff progress.
Anyway, back to the story...
I had asked my wife to come out and watch me with the first two digits of 911 already dialed on the cordless, just in case. I had rested the top rung of the ladder near a fork in a secondary trunk (rather precariously, I hesitate to confess--but you already know how testicular the inferior half of the species can be sometimes). Elizabeth was about twenty feet farther up a ten-inch limb that I could access by hopping onto the nearest fork.
When I did that, I discovered how much ice the previous night's freezing rain had left on the branches (poor Elizabeth, I thought, looking up at her in her soaked bedraggled frightened state). There weren't any more branches between me and her, but I figured if a Polynesian can scale a palm, a Celt can certainly clamber up a walnut. So I hoisted myself up to the point where I made a nest of both my gloved hands, just above a bend in the limb a few feet below Elizabeth, and mentioned to my wife down below how icy the branches were.
At that point of rest, waiting for Elizabeth to decide whether she had enough courage left to creep down the few feet she needed to, to reach safety, I looked down to see how my wife was reacting to all this. When I saw the half-crazed, half-fascinated look in her eyes, it reminded me of a lesson I'd learned in my shoulder-length hair days, but whose knowledge had some time ago ceased to have any practical utility: nothing warms a woman's drawers quite like dancing in a tree.
Gentlemen, if you, as I do, appreciate the exquisite craftspersonship of the tantalizing lips of a skilled fellatrix--and what a randy one of you has not, in some fleeting flash, savored the imaginary sensation of former Senator Mary Landrieu's full and luscious labios moistening your very own distinguished member?--I doubt there's a more effective attractant to wide-mouthed beauties than a little skillful tree-dancing. Just a word to the wise, boys. Those over 75 or so--the age of the guy who taught me carpentry--generally need not apply without a Viagra scrip (the fountain of Organization Man youth).
(Cripes, my wife is going to cut my dick off when she reads this (is that a bad word? It's not supposed to be in front of "cheney," even though it is. Otherwise, it's just a harmless Anglo-Saxonism, in my book). I better wear her chastity belt to bed tonight and hide the key. That way I'll wake up if she tries to break in, that fancy Japanese paring knife clenched in her angrily gritted teeth. Being male by gender, I prefer my baloney unsliced, thank you very much. You think I'm radical, you should try hanging out with some radical feminists sometime. That crowd of Harpies could shrivel an obelisk.)
Where was I (profound question, indeed)? Oh yeah, up in the tree with Elizabeth. I'll try to wrap this up, because I haven't even reached the main topic of this week's Gospel Hour. But I figure it's okay to extend the sermon slightly this week, since most of the primitives stayed home, grumbling about how I'm trying to turn their Lord and Savior--a man I deeply, deeply respect--into a cartoon Mohammed. And most of the rest of you are usually half-asleep in the pews by this time anyway. So I'll just ramble on a bit more.
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