A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || October 24, 2006 || 8:53 pm

It only took what, seven years?

Good LORD, I see that my boyfriend Christian Bale (he needs a fetching nick, like ‘Babydaddy Bale’ or something. don’t you think?)

is playing yet another complete lunatic. Crazy looks good on you, Christian. Sooooooo good.

Since the dawn of man I’ve wanted to meet a blogger. No, really. Before there was an interwebnets, Al Gore, He Of The Respectable Pudge

: If I were Al Gore I could probably fuck Martha Stewart

Jett: gack. You’d wanna hit that?

Chatmonkey3000: if I was Al Fucking Gore I sure as hell would


Chatmonkey3000: fuck yeah. those two would be like the perfect couple

Jett: okay, explain that.

Chatmonkey3000: well

Jett: make with the crazytalk

Chatmonkey3000: they’ve both got that subtle plumpness going on

Jett: ‘vitality’ heh

Chatmonkey3000: the plumpness that can be viewed as respectable, at that age and they’re both fairly wordy

Jett: ?? that’s all you got, innit?

Chatmonkey3000: so you see how I come to this conclusion

sat down with me to determine the parameters for this Internet Thingy (as he used to call it). I told him, “Al Gore, I could give two shits about what you do. I just wanna, you know, meet complete strangers in a more unconventional manner.”

Al Gore clapped his hands, shot out lightning-wrapped words from betwixt his orator’s lips and a whole new dimension (or is it a universe in here?) was sallied forth to fuck society up further. AMEN!

So, that was the first part of the plan to come to fruition. The second came last Saturday, when I found myself in Birmingham on some contract work. I had a couple of hours to kill early-on, and I just so happened to sense that somebody needed CHEERING UP.

“Hellooooo?” he croaked upon answering my eight ay emm call.

“Hey champy, I got some time to kill. Wanna go catch some breakfast or somethin’?”


Which, speaking hangover, I knew to mean, “Damn, that is the most fabulous idea, you smashing woman you.”

“How’s Cracker Barrel work for you?” he asked in a more lucid moment.

“Works fine. I’m about to gnaw off somebody’s face, I need protein so bad.”

…and we were off to the races!

If the races had poor navigational officers, that is. In a nutshell: I followed Skillzy’s directions to a ‘t’ and then called him to ask, “Umm, am I supposed to be in front of The Summit?” whereupon he began to upbraid me for my inadequate interpretations of his directions. It was kind of a “I SAID ‘go right‘, but I was actually beaming ‘go left‘ straight into your brain; didn’t you get the transmission?” moment. HAHAHA, YOU ASS is what I got to tell him.

Upon arrival we had to wait for a table, so Skillzy cleverly put us down as “Jett, party of two!” and we went off amidst the dry goods to talk for a bit. I kind of looked like ass, hair up and wearing yoga pants, but that was just a test to see if this bloggery person might be my friend No Matter What. Which is another way entirely of saying that I do impulsive things sometimes, like Calling Up Strangers From The Internet (a.k.a. ‘Bloggers’) at the last minute to go and dine on grits some random Saturday.

When they paged us, there were two other parties paged, as well: Shipp and Cary.

“Ship carry jet.”

Of course, I –being simpleminded and all– derived a great deal of glee from that. It was as if they somehow knew a wordnerd was in their midst.

We were seated, we ordered, we had jazzy conversation (in which we bagged on spoke lovingly of all the rest of you, losery Cyberia People I May Meet In The Future) and a few laughs. At one point I mentioned hitting a rock the day before and how, subsequently, the ball of my foot was very tender. Here, you just listen in on your own:

Skillzy: You’re lucky you didn’t jack your ankle up.

Jett: OH, HEYYYY. You wanna see my ankle scars??

Skillzy: No.

I didn’t know this, dear readership, but I seem to have a problem with the offering up of body parts as show-and-tell; what strategies do you employ in getting acquainted with others? There was something about showing my breasts, to which my patient fellow dork with a keyboard responded,

“For crapsakes, Jett, we’re in a Cracker Barrel.”


We shopped a sidewalk sale, I bought impulse crap, Skillzy waited patiently while I checked out and said, “I cannot believe you called me on the one day out of the year when I am hung. OHverrr.” I shrugged, because that’s what clever people do. We hugged and parted ways, promising to Do It Again.*

I got about a half a mile down the road when I realized my rudeness, so I picked up the phone. “Skillzy, thanks for breakfast. And thanks for not bein’ a serial killer or nothin’.”

*but this time, it will be in the CBGB’s Of The South and I will be wearing things like makeup and dignity and tall boots

1 worked it out »

  1. skillzy 10.25.2006

    You do realize that now you have to show me your tatas at the Nick, since it’s not a Cracker Barrel and all.

    And thanks a bunch for not mentioning how I looked. Or smelled.


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