This time it's me begging for your kind assistance. I desperately need to be
someone's arm dressing. If you'll do this for me, I'll owe you two in return and will
be all too happy to see the Australian outback in midsummer. I won't complain even
if it's 120 in the shade and giant ants carry away the picnic basket.
I was scheduled to speak at a judicial conference in Vegas this Sunday. I'd
planned to pop over for a couple three hours and pop back, but Joe Hood, who is on
the 9th Court of Appeals had a sudden illness in his family & has asked me to
deliver his paper Friday evening, so I'll just stay over. It's the opening address. He's
an old friend and someone I can't refuse.
Here's my problem. Also present will be an odious little tub of lard and snake
oil, who is somewhat enamored of my great beauty. That alone should tell you that
he needs gelding - or at the very least glasses - or maybe a brain transplant. I'm not
impugning your taste, my dear, but we understand each other, don't we?.
Now, I am sure you're wondering why I don't just sic my hound on him &
let her decrease his testosterone levels. Don't think I haven't reveled in the image.
But I must admit it's my own fault. I got a little too playful in my wilder days and
for the space of about two minutes encouraged him. I was the one who needed
glasses. He's the type that thinks he's God's gift and any "unattached" female is
absolutely pining for his companionship. Unfortunately, his position is currently
such that I don't want to rock the boat, if you catch my drift.
On the opposite side of the coin, however, (in my best West Texas
vernacular) he's chicken s**t. Let a pair of trousers appear with the proper
masculine accouterments and he quickly goes sniffing other tails.
So, my dear Dr. Rayne, I need a linebacker to run interference for me. I
know Vegas isn't exactly your style, nor mine, and doubtless we both have reams of
paperwork to do, but maybe we could catch a show - Sigfried and Roy, perhaps -
I'd love to see the white tigers and get your opinion on the magic. I'm sure we could
find a way to occupy the rest of the time - maybe change your playing position to
tackle?
Are you up to a game of touch football?
PS Don't get the impression, buster, that your slippers have a permanent place
under my bed. The only things permanently immured there are dust bunnies and
dog hair. But, maybe we could keep a spare pair of flip-flops in the back closet - if
Marigold and brood don't object.
