Looks Can Be Deceiving

So hi there. How are ya? Been a while, hasn't it? I'd like to say that what's kept me from you had to do with nudity and a beautiful woman, but alas, the truth is I've been traveling for work. As a matter of fact, I've been home for a whopping two days and now I'm about to hop a plane again, except this time the kids come with me. And while there has been nudity involved, it's more been of the doctor-slash-patient variety, and I'm afraid it wasn't as fun as my fantasy conjured. As you read this I'm sitting at a table in one of the many thousand centers of the universe for those of the caffeine addicted: Starbucks. I'm in the Galleria area of Houston, sipping a nice iced latte (although a little strong on the espresso) while my naughty offspring read over my shoulder at what I'm typing. So no swearing, fuckers.

We're here waiting for our flight out to the coast (west, not east). I'm reminded of the James Brown song "Pappa's Got A Brand New Bag." Not because it carries any relevance to my life right now, but because it's being pumped into the air over the speaker system in here. And after all, when I think classic Soul music, I think Starbuck's.

On the other side of the tall, plate-glass window from my checker-top round table is a bright red, chick magnet Ferrari Spyder. Yes, it's all the poon you can handle for the bargain price of $200,000. FlyBoy is gibbering and carrying on about it in the same way I do when I spy an unclaimed Twinkie or exposed boobie. So at least I understand the compulsion.

I have a venti iced latte here next to me, that as of twenty seconds ago, has become undrinkable. I say that it is undrinkable because as my younger offspring -FlyBoy- bent over to read my words of wisdom he confused my latte with his smoothie and took a big ol' swig... paused for a moment with a look of abject horror on his face... then promptly spit it all back into my cup. Yay me. "Yes Miss barrista, I'll have a venti non-fat iced latte with an extra shot of spittle please! Oh, and don't forget the partially masticated chocolate chip remnants from his gaping maw."

So anyway, here we sit, waiting to board a plane for the coast. This job, aside from a salary large enough to achieve love in the really old fashioned way (by paying for it), may also very likely turn into the job that allows me to roam the country at will and work remotely. I've been looking for one of those every since we decided we wanted to travel full time. Back before things went to shit. I hinted about working from Montana one month, Wisconsin the next, Florida the next to my boss during a conference call earlier this week and his reply was that after I get this business into the kind of financial shape he desires, he can't say he'd necessarily care where I'm actually located each day; as long as the job's done and I make it back to California or Houston on an as-needed basis. Again, yay me.
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It's later. Quite a bit later, actually. We made it to California. I've just returned home from making a trip back to the airport to pick up the bags they conveniently lost for us earlier. The airline is considerate that way. And the offspring left my laptop in Houston. In the back seat of my car. Which is parked in the... wait. Perhaps it wouldn't be a smart idea to mention to everyone on the 'nets that my laptop is unattended.

Needless to say, so far, the best part of my trip was the iced latte at the International House of Caffeinated Crack, aka Starbucks. The garage was totally, 100% full; my laptop missed it's flight; the airline lost two of our bags; and I've still not had sex since Woodrow Wilson was in the White House.

So when time came to rent a car, I decided to go high-end.

Agent: OK sir, here's your ford POS.

Me: Don't you have anything... nicer?

Agent: Sure! What did you have in mind?

Me: Oh, I don't know, something that says sexy and that I have a higher income than IQ?

Agent [tapping on keyboard]: Oh, well ok; that level of ego stroke comes to an extra $925 a day.

Me: Money is no object. Set me up. I gotta look cool for the chicks. I mean look at me; clearly I need all the help I can get. After all, it worked for those guys who married Sandra Bullock and Julia Roberts, right?

Agent: tappity tappity. OK sir. I need you to sign the following affidavits and waivers.

She passed a phone book sized stack of papers over to me and began shuffling through to the relevant pages.

Agent: This one stipulates that we here at [rental agency] are not responsible for any harm caused by the rampant testosterone that will be coursing through your veins. [I scribble my initials]. And this one says you won't try to drive while receiving road head from a 21 year old blonde you meet in a bar then pay the cover charge at every other nightclub in town trying to find her after you return from the restroom to find that she and her friend have left. [scribble my initials while saying "what they don't know won't hurt me" to myself]. OK, good; and finally this one says that while we know you are male and will not be able to resist fucking with all the buttons and gadgets in the cockpit, you will only do so from a complete stop and only AFTER you get road head from the girl you just signed wouldn't be. [check]. OK, here's your key fob. Just exit these doors and turn left. Then look for the group of...

And that's right about the time I tuned out because, you know, I'm male and have a short attention span.

Let's see.... down isle "R," in slot 44..... and there she was... a brand spanking new Cadillac sports car.

I pressed the "I'm your new master" button on the fob. Her lights winked at me from across the parking lot. She roared to life and opened herself to me as if to say c'mere baby, everything you want is right in here.

I slid inside with one fluid motion. Her warm interior enfolded me as my hands glided over her smooth features. My breathing started to become heavy. I could feel her gently pulsing underneath me.

Then, just as I became fully engaged in pressing the right buttons there came a knock at the door and I head "Dad! Dad! What are you doing in there! Open the door, let us in!"

Huh, just like real life. I swear since having kids I haven't had 10 minutes for either sex or the bathroom. I shut off the engine and fingered the button on the door and the kids piled in. Suddenly I'm just EA again, hopeless romantic father of two, just trying to string another successful today between yesterday and tomorrow.

Once settled with seatbelts on, I press the 'come to life' button on the fob again. Nothing happened.

I pressed it again and was greeted with an audible "ding" and a sexy, sultry female voice.

"I'm sorry. My sensors indicate that you're a man. You must first pass the test before I am able to submit to you."

"Test?"

"Yes sir. Test. Please place your hands on the steering wheel and hold still while I conduct my analysis."

"Huh?"

"Please refer to paragraph 2b of your rental contract: drivers must first submit to an assessment and aptitude test before I will allow the world to know you've been inside me. Please place your hands on the steering wheel and remain still for a moment."

I know! It seemed really odd to me too. But I figured I've got what it takes to handle even the most pretentious vehicles, so I did as she instructed. She didn't keep me waiting long.

"Sorry sir, my analysis has determined that your penis is too large to drive a vehicle like me. Also, I detect the presence of offspring and that you are approximately 42,000 pounds too heavy for me to be seen in public with you.

"42,000?"

"Approximately, yes. Please return to the rental counter to exchange me for one of this agencies many Ford POS'."

"Oh c'mon! Isn't there an appeals process?"

"Well, I do detect that you have a high income. And I can see from my background analysis that you have just the right amount of bad boy in you and that you used to be pretty hot. So perhaps we can work something out. Please insert $4,000 into the CD slot and for the next few days I'll act as though you need me to compensate for another 'shortcoming'."

Thank God I'd just seen my pimp the day before.
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By the way, I noticed that our flight crew, including the pilots, on our first flight was almost entirely women. So do you suppose that with an all female flight crew, the cockpit suddenly becomes referred to as "the box office?"