I’m not that lucky in life when it comes to the ladies, so you’d think my subconscious would make up for it at night, right?
I was living in L.A. again, working at a super-sized version of Best Buy that felt a little more like a Costco, so maybe it was at a Costco that had a Best Buy-styled electronics department. Anywarehouse… it was before the holidays, and I was helping a woman locate a copy of “Little Miss Sunshine.”
As I rounded the discount bins, I spotted her:
I made some comment that the woman I was helping was looking for one of Amanda Bynes’ movies (she wasn’t in “Little Miss Sunshine,” but see my previous posts about my failing mental functions), and she perked up and walked right up to me. Well, she sort stumbled toward me.
She smiled that winning grin: “You’re hot.”
I was taken aback by her candor. “Well, so are you.”
The shopper reminded me that she needed to find that DVD for a Christmas present.
Amanda stepped stumbled closer to me. It became clear to me she was more than a little tipsy, and since she’s seems like such a sweet girl in real-life, I’ll sugar coat her speak from here on out: “I wanna fudge you.”
The woman’s jaw dropped. Who knows what my face looked like. She sidled up to me and slipped her arm around my waist, resting her head on my shoulder. “Will you take me home?”
The woman rushed off to complain to my manager, and my manager being the awesome manager he must have been (or maybe he was a complete apple), assessed the situation and sent me home. So I resided to the fact of driving Ms. Bynes back to her place. As we made our way to my vehicle, she announced that her mother and brother were with her, and I’d also have to drive them.
En route to her abode, she stared at me from the passenger seat, hazy and wobbling. Her mother and brother argued in the back seat. Upon arriving at their apartment building, we ascended a wide spiraling staircase to find that they had no furniture – only matresses spread out all over like some heroin den. She invited me inside.
At this point, I already began the betrayal of myself, and sought out to only get her cell phone number as she lead me to her Serta perfect sleeper. “Yeah, I’ll have to get your number so we can hang out sometime.”
As she rested on her springed laurels, she started saying a string of numbers.
“That’s too many for a phone number.”
“I’d put good money on it that your better than Justin.”
“Timberlake. I bet you fudge better.” (NOTE: That sounds grosser than it should.)
“How about I give you my number, and then you can call my cell and I’ll have your number.” I fiddled with my mobile and started reciting my ten digits.
She stood up and leaned her back against the wall. She slipped the strap off one of her shoulders revealing her right muffin.
“I should really get going.”
And I woke up. Brain, why do you forsake me even when I’m sleeping!?
INGREDIENTS: Four tall Coors Lights and half of a three-day old cajun crust pizza.