temper-ature tantrums

When I write my new book, that's what I'm calling it. "Temper-ature tantrums" AND I CALL COMSIE BACKSIES.

Today, the weather warmed to 20 degrees and suddenly I couldn't drive without rolling down my windows. It was like god wanted me to practice for my week of Mexi-Go crazy. The temps got me so excited, I practically flashed neighboring motorists because I knew I could do it and my baby-feeders wouldn't freeze.

But although the weather warmed, local brain cells didn't.

As I left the cop shop today (my newest meet-market... for meeting men, you know) a gentleman no taller, no older and no acquaintance of mine said he'd seen me before.

Mind you, I had JUST passed him. Like, said excuse me, fumbled for my keys and went about my business. I turned my head, reached for my door handle and...

"HEY. I seen you at that spaghetti supper."

Yes, "seen you." That's how you know he's local.

Uh... the one for the Humane Society, I said? Two weeks ago?

Yea.

Excuse me but, did I have something stuck in my teeth that night? Had my hair fallen flat? Was it my abnormally green coat(s)? No, it couldn't be... I know, it was my middle toe's stature compare to my big one, wasn't it? I knew that would get me in trouble. How embarrassing. But more importantly...

How does a dude look at a lady for one second and remember exactly where he last saw her?

I didn't stick around to know the answer.

As I was leaving, I double checked the signage. I meant to drive to the police station, but maybe I'd wound up at the state hospital instead...

Irish you never have to go through this...

Ok OK, I'm late I'm sorry. Apparently Danny Tats (the dude with a tatoo on his head) is more exciting than me biffing it on the streets of Omaha. Thanks a lot.

Ok, readers, here he is:

I thought I could say crazy creepers were limited to the streets of North Dakota. Maybe they fly south for winter.

Name: Danny Tats
Age: 27
Occupation: professional rugby player... anyone believe that?
Hometown: Council Bluffs... maybe that explains it...

I met Danny at a Dundee pub with Kelli M. She and I go way back to the days of actually living in Ireland, so in addition to natural curiosity about a index card-sized tattoo above a dude's ear, we actually knew what we were talking about. Danny, however, didn't.

Normally, I'd wait a drink or two before asking a stranger why he'd do something not only so painful, but downright absurd, but Danny beat me to the vodka-spiked punch. Soon, I was three shots to the wind, believing everything he said about cracking his skull, ski-diving over the Middle East and earning $1.3 million a year.

So tell me about your other tattoos, I said.

Off came his shirt and on came the story of Irish Catholics and their belief that when Jesus comes back, he'll be PISSED, he said.

Huh, Kelli and I thought, we're Irish Catholic. We've even LIVED in Ireland. We don't recall... we said.

Well, this is what it will look like, he said, pointing to Jesus and his bloody spatula dicing sheep and filleting them on a george forman grill.

Again, not what I learned in Sunday School and second, what's the son of god doing slaying sheep with a SPATULA? Couldn't he send an angel of death, swarm of locusts or at least an AK-47 or something?

The best part of the evening was the rugby player's business card which says nothing about rugby or any other sport but rather talks about some American arms company, complete with a handgun emblem in the corner. Only millionaires have handguns on their business cards. Sexy.

Oh I'm not done.

He hand-wrote both his NAME and his PHONE number on the business card. Now if your name, number and e-mail address aren't on your business card, what's the point of carrying one?

I guess I shouldn't make too much fun... I lied/omitted the truth too. I told him I'd go out with him sometime.