Teenagers Leaving the Nest

They come to us as helpless bundles of joy. Our lives take on more profound meaning than we ever imagined. As parents, we have huge expectations for ourselves and our children.

There are sleepless nights as the baby's needs come before our own. Every whimper or cry sets off our alarms as we selflessly devote to determining and rectifying the cause. They are fed, diapered, and nurtured in every way that we can guess might quiet the infant sounds of distress.

We watch with anticipation and glee as they gain weight, grow and develop control of their little muscles and frame. We hang on every sound that they make as toddlers, while they learn to form words and communicate with us in words rather than cries.

Soon they become preschoolers and we devote hours of time to them as they learn colors, numbers, alphabet, and names of objects from books and "educational" toys. We are an ocean of knowledge. They are the insatiable sponge of all that we can offer.

As they move into the pre-teen years, their horizons expand considerably. They may even challenge the status that has been given them, from time-to-time. Family vacations are planned for what might be the most fun and educational for the children.

When hormones begin to manifest the morph of our children into teenagers, we recall with vivid reality the times that we might not have survived those years into adulthood ourselves. Our fears for our children surviving their teen years are more profound than we could have ever have imagined the mental suffering that we caused our own parents.

The fact remains that these youths, though mottled with signs of adolescence, have full-feathered wings. However lacking that they might in the navigating the skies they are going to fly. Many teenagers, suffering the stress of trying to act like an adult without the full autonomy of being an adult, become frustrated and threaten to leave home. A few actually do.

Some of my adult children have teenagers, and even grandchildren, of their own now. I used to tell them, as young adults, that a teenager leaving home was like a baby maturing out of the need for diapers. I did not mind going through it but there would not be any do-overs. Looking back on how this worked out, I am eternally thankful that none of them went back to shitting their pants, too.

Fire Ants in the Pants

There are no shortages of flora and fauna in southern Florida that are going to bite you, scratch you, sting you, stick you or eat you. Next to mosquitoes, fire ants are the most likely of potentially unpleasant encounters for people. Luckily, fire ant mounds are fairly easy to notice, avoid and keep under control in areas that people frequent.

We get them from time-to-time in the yard. Usually, we spot the mound while it’s still small and treat to get rid of them. Left unchecked the mounds can get to several square feet of ground surface with entrances to the colony throughout the mound. Stepping into a fire ant mound of any size is not likely to be pleasant. The little buggers are going to come after you.

Whether it is a squad of these six-legged soldiers that make your flesh a battlefield or a whole regiment, they are going to make you suffer. Fire ants move up a person’s body until they find bare flesh. Then the fire ant lieutenant sends out the command to open fire.

If you’re wearing sandals then you will feel the sting of battle very soon. If not, then they will continue to move up your legs until they clear the tops of your socks. You will start to feel stings simultaneously around your knees. When fire ants first sting they are not as painful as their name implies.

The bad part, though, is that the stings might not be noticed until many of the ants have already stung you once or twice. Fire ants take hold of your skin with their mandibles and sting from their abdomen like their wasp cousins. That is why it is common to find two or three sting welts close together. They hang on and just keep jabbing.

On one recent occasion, I took the dogs outside after dark wearing only flip-flops. This type of footwear is not advisable near known colonies of fire ants. However, I was going to stay on the driveway and did not expect to disturb any fire ants. If there is an active mound on the yard then we usually know about where it might be.

On this particular day I must have got in the way of a foraging party that was making its way across the driveway. A squad of the little soldiers wounded my right foot multiple times before I sensed their attack. I had about twelve stings on my toes and on the top of my foot near my toes.

Fire ant stings itch more than they burn. The worse thing that you can do is to scratch them. Breaking the skin by scratching could result in an infection. Scratching also intensifies the itching exponentially.

The initial welt formed by the fire ant sting will form into a pustule that looks much like a white-head pimple. It itches horribly. If you have ever suffered a mosquito bite on one of your knuckles then you have vague idea of what a fire ant sting on the toe is like. Just multiply the agony times ten or more.

In my opinion, the best treatment for the profuse itching is an over-the-counter topical analgesic. However, if the pustule gets broken open, rubbing alcohol will help to ward off infection and dry the pustule before applying the analgesic.

Though, most of us don’t readily admit it, we all have more than enough stupid on hand to get us into trouble from time-to-time. A few days after the fire ant attack to my toes, I took the dogs out, again, wearing only flip flops. To make the situation even worse, I had succumbed to the itching of the stings and scratched to the point of causing some infection just above my toes.

I was pretty confident that the infection was going heal without a visit to the doctor. However, I was outside again with only flip flops on my feet. The rest of this story might seem obvious at this point but I was oozing with stupid on that day.

I had found a small fire ant mound near the air conditioner the other day and treated it. A common practice to determine if a fire any mound is live is to drag your foot across the top of it, scraping the loose dirt off of it. If it’s live then the soldiers are going to come to the surface madder than honey bees protecting their hive. All you need to do is step away quickly to avoid being attacked.

Remember now, I was wearing flip flops. Oh, and yes, I scraped the mound with my foot that had been ravaged a few days before by fire ants. I was spilling stupid all over the place.

I hit the mound with the sole me flip flop and, seeing that it was still live, I moved away quickly. Thinking that I had out-maneuvered the little soldiers, I was standing on the driveway watching the dogs when I felt folly of my erroneous assumption. At least another platoon must have managed to hang on to my flip flop and were now, on signal from the platoon leader no doubt, exercising an effective offensive on my foot and toes.

You will remember that I said that I had a scratch-induced infection? These little guys found it and stung me over and over on that infected flesh. A trip to the doctor seemed inevitable now.

With this being the information age and all, I often seek alternative information before I make a run into the doctor. My way of thinking was that if red lines started forming up the line of a vein in my foot then I’d waste no time in getting the doctor. However, if I could find a remedy online that was worth trying, my thanks would go out to Sergey and Larry rather than the doctor.

It just doesn’t seem likely that, out 391 million possibilities that Google can put in front of me in less than a minute, that Sergey and Larry would give me the most stupid solution out there. How wrong that I was. My search was a homerun for some dumbass that has no business talking to other people, much less posting “information” on the internet.

I found How to Treat a Fire Ant Sting. First of all, the title is bogus by reference to stings in the singular. One single fire ant sting is a rarity. These guys attack in armies.

Next, it offers two steps in Dealing with Fire Ants. First, step away from the mound. Now this might not seem obvious to someone who has never had the misfortune of stepping on a fire ant mound. However, I assure you that, experienced or not, you are going to step off of the fire ant the moment that you realize that your error. Nobody needs to tell you that. I couldn’t help but wonder if this half-wit thought that I was still standing in the middle of the fire ant mound while I reading his very limited wisdom on my smart phone.

The next instruction is to that you should pick the fire ants off one at time. Oh yeah! I can guarantee that, if you’re suffering a regimental fire ant attack then you’re going to knock those buggers off with as few sweeps of your hands as possible. You might pick off wood ticks but you had better wipe off fire ants very quickly.

Remember, north to a fire ant is up your pant leg. It will give a whole new meaning to the childhood colloquialism of Ants in Your Pants. That brings us to the next instruction from this idiot.  If there is a chance that fire ants got into your clothing, remove them immediately. Duh?

This happened to me once while I was running a gas-powered weed trimmer in the yard. By the time that I realized that they were there, those soldiers were high enough up my leg to claim the jewels. I didn’t care who might be offended by the sight of a half naked old man in my back yard. Everything from the waist down was off and was caste aside as I launched my counter-offensive.

I could not imagine going to the doctor with a part of my gender specific anatomy swollen beyond recognition.  I’d be sitting there in the exam room while the nurse took my vitals and then she would ask, “And what are we seeing you for today?” Try explaining that one without wearing a crimson face.

Then there would be the itching. Every guy has to scratch once in awhile but with the intensity of itch that fire stings cause… It would be like perpetual masturbation….but without a climax.

This is one of the best of the stupid instructions in the internet article. Do not slap the fire ants as this might agitate them. How ridiculous is that? You just walked all over their home. How can you “agitate” them more than you already have? They are already, willing to die for the survival of the colony, livid with you.

Imagine if Godzilla came tromping around in your neighborhood. You’re not going wait for him to slap you into agitation. You’re going to take that sucker out with a couple of RPGs into his vitals before he can even get to your next-door neighbor’s house.

For Treatment of Fire Ant Stings, which isn’t the same as Dealing with Fire Ant Stings in this article, the first step is to hold the affected area high to avoid swelling. Now I don’t know how well this ding-a-ling was listening when he went through Fire Ants 101 but he missed a couple of important points. Fire ants live in the ground and the most likely affected areas are, therefore, the person’s feet and legs.

Are you going to walk home on your hands to avoid swelling in your feet and legs? About the only way that you’re going to get stings from fire ants above your waist is if you and you intimate partner are foolish enough to get naked and do the horizontal mambo in the near vicinity of a fire ant mound. That is certain to be a screwing that neither of you will ever forget.

It’s pretty much guaranteed that those ants would heat up your foreplay like never before. Then it will you sitting in the exam room when the nurse asks, “And what are seeing you for today?”

You might as well go to the doctor together. Maybe you can a twofer discount and then only one of you will have answer sheepishly, “Well… we were making bugaloo on a fire ant mound when all of the sudden they started coming. They just kept on coming and coming until we were fire ant hot all over.”

How to Treat a Fire Ant Sting

From the Driver's Seat... Mardi Gras and More

When a group of seasoned truck drivers are together and sharing stories for awhile there is a strong possibility that one of them will tell of a flasher in a passing car.  Then a game of “one-up” will start with everyone relating their own experiences.  I don’t want to give the impression that it’s Mardi Gras from coast to coast on our interstate highways.  Personally, I have only been flashed on average of once or twice per year.  

Without doubt though, there are a few women who seem to take delight in displaying their unfettered assets from their passing cars.  There is not a better highway vantage point for witnessing such behavior than from the high mounted driver’s seat of a truck.  So far, I've not known a male truck driver to be offended by this practice.

I’m a curious person and not usually bashful about asking questions that others probably would not.  I have asked women truck drivers if they ever witness flashers of the opposite gender.  Sure enough, those that are comfortable talking about such things have some stories to tell.  Most of those, whom I asked, have seen soldiers in the cars below in all states of readiness.

I remember one sweet lady’s story in particular.  Jeanie was a soft spoken sort of person that didn’t care for rough language.  If you spoke to her using even mildly profane adjectives she would respond with, “Excuse me?”  Jeanie had a way of saying “excuse me” that you clearly understood to mean “if you don’t stop cussing I’m going to separate you from certain parts of your anatomy that are specific to your gender.”

Jeanie first told a story of a woman, rather than a man, in the passenger seat of a passing car.  The woman was in a very compromising position and state of undress.  She was making unconventional use of a hairbrush handle in the depths of regions down south.  As incredible as this might sound Jeanie was not the sort of person to make things up.  I had no doubt that it was raw truth.  Nobody in the group was making a move to one-up Jeanie’s story so I pressed her a little for an experience that might have involved the opposite gender.

She related that a car had passed her and then settled in front of her.  The car’s speed was inconsistent but, when it slowed, it wasn’t quite enough for her to pass it.  She was becoming a little annoyed when the car moved to the left lane dropped in alongside of her cab.  Naturally curious, especially with the driver’s erratic driving behavior, Jeannie looked down.  

Several years had passed since this had happened.  Still, telling the story to us, she hesitated as her mouth went wide in the awe and disbelief that was still with her.  Jeanie looked down to see a soldier at rigid attention and getting serious rub.  

She woke her husband, who was also her co-driver, to witness this with her.  As quiet and reserved as Jeanie was, this was just too incredible not to share with her husband.  A soldier at full attention was one thing but Jeanie had never in her life imagined that one could stand so tall.

Never in my years of driving did I ever have an experience that could one-up either of Jeanie’s stories.  Sometimes, however, what you don’t see might be more entertaining than what you do see.
I was cruising along an interstate highway in the right lane with a load of diesel fuel in the tanker behind me.  The traffic was very light. 

In the distance ahead of me was a subcompact red car running in the left lane.  This car had my attention because I was gaining on it.  Traveling at a slower speed it should have been in the right lane.  The distance closed and I evaluated that I could safely pass on the right.  Whatever was going on in the car, it was holding steady in the center of the left lane.

I glanced down at the car to see the length of a somewhat large woman from hips to head. She was face down and her body filled the interior of the little car from right door to left door.  The only other thing visible was someone else’s hand on the steering wheel.  I leave readers to their own imagination as to what was happening in this car.

A few miles later I spotted a little red car in my mirror that was approaching fast in the left lane.  As it neared I could make out the faces of a man and a woman both wearing big smiles.  I’ll never know for certain why the car was going slowly and then fast.  Nor, will I know why the two persons wore such glowing smiles when the car passed me.  I do have a guess, though.  I’m fairly certain that just a few minutes before the car passed me both the man and the woman probably had need of a clean hankie.

Coin-Op Toilets, Automation and Sex in the Pooper

Public toilets have evolved considerably over the years.  Many of us may be familiar with the public pay toilet.  They have to be opened via a coin actuated lock on the stall door.  Not having the required coin in your pocket and waiting too long to use the toilet would not make for a comfortable situation. 

It might be a goldmine for street beggars, however.  Who could turn down somebody asking for spare change outside of coin operated restroom?  Add in a nervous little dance on the part of the beggar and I’d give him a few coins.  That way he’d have a coin for the toilet right at the time, one for coffee afterwards and another in case the coffee made his bladder swell again before he got all the way home.

  

Pay toilets fell out of favor in the United States with the feminist movement in the seventies.  Women didn't think that it was fair for them to pay for a stall while men didn't have to pay for urinal.  I agree.

Personally, I think that a pay urinal could have been a good thing.  An enclosure could have been built around the urinal with a coin operated little door that flipped open so the guys could insert to take care of business.  What’s even better, the proceeds gained from urinal charges would have higher margins because toilet paper isn't required at a urinal. 

Not only that but, with the enclosure around a urinal, slobs couldn't litter the urinal with their chewing gum and cigarette butts.  Best of all, it would be nearly impossible for the pervert voyeur at the urinal next to you sneak a peek.

Of course the little door on the urinal would have to re-lock on timed sequence in order to prevent cheaters from doing a free pee.  Imagine some guy sneaking in right after you and before the little door closes because he has to go really bad and doesn't have any change. 

You’re washing your hands and you hear a scream as the door slams shut on the poor guy.  Guaranteed, that’s the last time that he’ll ever want a free pee. It might even be the last time that the guys pees from the standing position.

Can you imagine what a good ambulance-chasing lawyer could do with that? Would that be a charge of assault by penectomy? Nah, it would be assault by urinal with the result being a penectomy. The lawyers would figure it out. 

Then this poor guy would have to testify to the intimate details of how his life was ruined. "You'd think that I was nothing but a dog now. Whenever the missus gets really aroused she just keeps telling me to get down. It's nearly impossible for me to climax now. When I do, it's like spitting with no lips."

Hand washing is another aspect of public toilets that has evolved, too.  There was a time when a vandal could leave the water turned on in the basins in order to waste water.  The vandal might even plug the basin drains so that the water would run over and flood the restroom.   A really creative vandal could also be prepared with ducklings to leave on the flooded floor for aesthetic appeal.

Anyway, somebody ruined the vandal’s fun by inventing spring-loaded faucet shutoffs.  You could turn the water on but, the second that you let go of the handle, it would spring back to the closed position.  They didn't have much thought toward handicapped people in those days though.  Could you imagine being a one-handed person? 

You manage to get your pants down, take care of your personals and get you pants back up, complete with your shirt tucked back in.  And, you did it all with only one hand.  However, as can happen on occasion, you perforated the toilet paper while taking care of business.  It’s not real bad but you do have a little smudge on your fingertips.  

Not a problem you think.  That’s what basins are for.  Now how are you going to hold that faucet in the turned-on position and wash your only hand at the same time?  With my luck that would also be about the same time that that my nose would itch. 

Now they've perfected the hand washing experience with motion activated faucets. If you want to have some fun sometime go an international airport and walk into the restroom at the same time as some travelers from a third world country.  Then watch them try to figure out how to turn on the water.

Sometimes automated faucets get a little aggravating if they won’t work properly.  Most annoying is when it works to wet and soap my hands but then it shuts off before I finish rinsing and then I can’t get it going again.  That’s worse than an empty towel dispenser.

Some restrooms don't have paper towels. They been replaced by those machines on the wall that do hand blow-jobs. They don't work well though. They should take them all to congress because they'd be cheaper that what we're paying for the hot air that we get from there now.

We have come a long way toward accommodating handicapped people in public restrooms.  Take for example the low mounted urinals.  Yeah, right!  I have never seen a wheel-chaired person use one of those.  I have to believe that unless they’re far better endowed than I ever imagined being myself then they’re not going to be able to reach that bowl.

 

I don’t like to use the low urinals myself because I get splash on my pants.  You might wonder how that I know that.  Use one of them sometime with shorts on.  You’ll figure it out. Then you'll wish that they had showers in public restrooms.

Little people might use them though, I guess.  There might be problem if there isn't a partition between the urinals.  A little guy would have to wash his face.  Hopefully the motion sensors work at the basins.

Pay toilets are still popular in some parts of the world.  In Paris they have these structures on the street that look kind of like a double-wide phone booth with no windows.  With my luck I’d be sitting there doing the big job about the same time that Superman was in the neighborhood and needed a changing room.  

Then, of course, he wouldn't need a coin to get in.  There I’d be in all my glory as he tore off the door charged in.  I guess that I’d just say, “Hey Dude!  You have the wrong number.”

Those motion sensors are used to flush toilets now, too.  The spring loaded shut off on the flush handle seemed adequate to me.  I didn't see the need for motion sensors on the toilet.  They can be nuisance too.  Ever tried to do a courtesy flush with one of those things?  You haven’t wiped yet so you don’t want to stand up in order to make it flush.

Somebody figured that out later on.  The newer ones have manual flush buttons on them.  The trouble is that it’s difficult to find the little manual flush button behind you.  When you need to courtesy flush you can’t see exactly what you’re touching.  What if the person before you perforated the toilet paper and then used the manual flush button?  Hopefully the motion sensors are working on the basins.

One thing that really peeves me about public restrooms is the mean and cowardly people that pee on a toilet seat.  There isn't a man alive that shares a private restroom with a woman that would dare do that at home.  If he did he’d be eunuch for the rest of his life. 

Let’s be honest, though, ladies.  There are those among you who will do the same thing.  I have asked women.  They have told me about the hover.  The trouble with the hover is that the woman is too far from the target.  What’s worse, some of them are firing shotguns instead rifles.  Maybe the next innovation in public restrooms will be a radar aiming system for women doing the hover.

Once as I was approaching a unisex public restroom a woman was leaving.  I entered, closed and locked the door, turned around and I got a shock.  It looked like a giant tomcat had come in there and marked territory.

I had quite an experience with an automatic flusher in a public restroom.  If I have to the big job I always go the handicapped stall.  Now before you start thinking poorly of me it’s not like a I took a handicapped parking spot and somebody had to motor their hov-a-round across an five acres of parking lot.  That handicapped person has as much right to wait his turn for a public toilet as I do.  At least, he has a place to sit while he waits.  Besides, I get claustrophobic in the standard stall.  That’s kind of a handicap.

Anyway, I went into the handicapped stall and some coward, who apparently was not yet a eunuch, had peed on the toilet seat.  That’s another reason to use the handicapped stall.  A sink, soap and towels are right there so you can clean up after the jerk.

There were also these tissues in a dispenser on the wall that were shaped like a toilet seat.  I've never used those but then, I thought, what the heck.  I pulled one from the dispenser and unfolded it.  The center was perforated for removal all except for about four inches on the end of the oval shape.  So then I wonder if this goes in the front or back.  

There was no tag on it like you have on your T-shirt. I decided on the front.  My thinking was that they made it this way to protect the knees of anybody who couldn't aim their rifle or who only had a sawed-off shotgun.

I bent down and laid the thing carefully on seat.  The center part stayed attached on the front and the rest fell into the water.  Then I turned around to drop my pants.  The second that I straightened and turned, whoosh!  The tissue seat cover was gone in a flush.

I thought for second and realized that there must be a strategy to using these things.  I dropped my jeans, pulled another tissue from the dispenser, unfolded it and placed it carefully on the seat.  Then, with great stealth, I turned quickly back to forward and started to sit down.  Whoosh!  I was too slow.

At this point common sense might tell most people that this tissue wasn't needed and certainly wasn't important.  For me, however, it had become a challenge.  It was something that needed to be conquered.

I pulled another tissue from the dispenser but this time I lowered myself to the half-hover position over the toilet.  With what was now practiced stealth I placed the tissue on the seat and sat down.  This time I made it.  I had conquered the commode seat tissue.

Now you might think that the troubles were over.  However, after my physiological functions had ceased I rocked over to do the reach-under.  You know what they say about the job and paperwork.  Wouldn't you know it that I was wrong about conquering that tissue?  When I rocked over the tissue stuck like it had adhesive on one side and I had placed it wrong side up.

Now I was faced with the question of whether to reach under the tissue or peel it off and reach between the tissue and my person.  For those of you that do the reach-through, between your legs, instead of the reach-under you probably think that there is no problem.

You go ahead and reach through if you want to.  I’m not taking a chance on soiling certain valued parts of my person.  I can see it now.  I’d be trying to clean up at the basin.  Somebody would walk in and see me with pants around my ankles and the motion sensor wouldn't work on the basin.  Depending what sort of person walked in, who knows what direction that situation might have taken.

Well, anyway, I opted to peel the tissue from my person.  This was a bother but it just felt more natural.  Having the entire job done, complete with paperwork, I stood to pull up my jeans.  Whoosh!  But the tissue was stuck fast to the seat.

I heard a story of two guys that we’re having sex in a pay toilet.  They were charged with lewd behavior in public.  In court, the defense argued that since they had to pay to get into the toilet it was like renting a hotel room.  Therefore it was private and there was not a public display lewd behavior.

All of that aside, I cannot in my wildest imagination conceive the notion of having sex in public toilet.  I don’t care if it’s homosexual, heterosexual or a bi-sexual gang bang.  That is not what a toilet is made for.  I think that I’m as creative as anybody in trying some nontraditional positions but come on.  In a toilet?  There is hardly enough room to turn around and sit, much less, well, you know. 

Then with the multiple toilets that are in a public restroom.  Let’s say, just for a moment, that you and your “partner” are able to get into the mood, get into the stall and contort yourselves into an acceptable position for your desires.  You've mentally blocked out everything else around you and the climax is imminent. 

Then, in the stall next to you, someone sits down with a colon full of their used-up high-fiber diet mixed with noxious gases.  You hear the sounds of these ingredients making a high pressure exit, via the orifice that nature designed for that purpose, into the water below. 

I have to believe that, at this point, your ears, nose and raw imagination are going to override anything else that your body has going on except maybe breathing. And that’s a big maybe on the breathing. 

I don’t care how intense your passion is at the time.  You would be psychologically scarred for life from an experience like that.  So scarred, you might be, that the kitty would never purr again.

You might also enjoy reading the following stories.

Paperless Toilet Hygiene 

A Fishing Story, Two-Holers and Blue-Green Flies

A Tupperware Party for Guys

I doubt that there is a middle class household in America that doesn’t have some Tupperware items. My wife sold the stuff for a couple of years so we had more than our share. One spare bedroom was dedicated to Tupperware. It started out as an office but, in no time there was Tupperware floor to ceiling and wall to wall. It was difficult to get the door open in that room.

The only thing in there except Tupperware was the computer with a little walk path to get to it. I called that room the Tupperwarehouse. When our youngest son moved out my wife was going to Tuppersize that room, too, but I put a lock on it and nailed the door and window shut.

Whenever we were shopping together, I noticed that my wife watched me extra closely when I got near any sort of tools. She just wasn’t about to let me come away with more tools, than I already had, without laying down some obstacles.

Yet, even before she was selling Tupperware herself, she could not go to and come away from a Tupperware party without buying a few things. Not only that, but she would book her own party. When I questioned the rationale of this she would tell me how she saved a bunch of money.

“Okay,” I would ask, “did you save enough that we can go out for supper tonight?”

“Well… no.”

“That’s okay. Did you save enough for carry out pizza and a cold 24 ounce can of Michelob Ultra?” 

All of this happens under the pretext of helping out her friends that hosted the parties. The problem is that many of her friends have the same friends so more party invitations go out and more purchases are made and more parties are booked to “help out friends.” I call it exploitation of friends by Tupperware, rather than friends helping friends, but, hey, it works. It’s business.

When my wife was selling Tupperware I began visualizing the Tupperware party plan of selling for guy’s interests. Before you laugh, think about it. Guys aren’t going to buy much Tupperware but what about a Black & Decker party? For the first time, guys could use the same excuse that their wives used for buying more Tupperware, to buy more tools.

The host of a Black & Decker party wouldn’t meet each of the guys at the door to tell him how delighted he is that his friend could come. There wouldn’t be any coffee and cakes either. A Black & Decker party for guys would go more like this fictional account that follows.

One of the guys rang the doorbell and then heard a loud voice from inside.

“It’s open!” The guy walked in… “Hey Jake! Ya’ wanna’ beer?”

“Sounds good!”

“It’s over there in the big cooler. We got some nachos about to come outta’ the oven, some pickled eggs on the counter and there’s some chili on the stove. I’ll warn you right now though. That chili is some goooood stuff!”

When all of guys arrived the host announced that it was time to grab another beer because the show was about to start. The guys all gathered around and the Black & Decker dealer took over with an ice-breaker game. Each of the guys had the name of classic car or motorcycle taped to his back and had to guess what it was by asking questions of the other guys.

The winner of the game chose a prize from a bucket of small promotional items that included a machinist’s ruler, a carpenter’s pencil, pen knife, mini flashlight, coupons for Bass Pro, a Duncan yoyo, etc. Then after the winner chose his prize, the bucket was placed in the center of the room and the guys were instructed to help themselves to one of the gifts. Guys don’t care much about frivolous freebies, though, so most of them took this as a chance to run for another beer and a plate of nachos. It was kind of like super bowl halftime.

One of the guys did take the yoyo. He said that it was for his kid but, a few more beers into the afternoon, he was going around the world, walking the dog and rocking the cradle with practiced skill. His kid might get the yoyo but Dad was breaking it in.

The show went on and, thanks to a good flow of beer, the sales were good. The featured item was a four-in-one power tool set. The dealer demonstrated how the four units in the set all took the same 18 volt rechargeable lithium-ion battery pack. There were two battery packs in the set.

The dealer sold seven of the sets among a group of eleven guys. The price was inflated about 25% over what Home Depot would charge for a similar set made by Ryobi. What the heck, though?

Home Depot didn’t serve up free beer, nachos, pickled eggs and chili. What’s more, the guys felt good about helping out their buddy, the host. The dealer demonstrated other items also.

There was a reciprocating saw blade that would cut through most everything and, like the little Energizer bunny, just keeps on going and going and going.

“This blade will cut through everything except hot butter in the summer time.” The dealer laughed at his lame joke while guys looked back at him in total deadpan. At least, one person was amused, anyway. Every guy at the party put in an order of some sort to help out the host.

With all of the sales, the host was able to purchase the four-in-one power tool set at 25% off of the regular price. What’s more, there were enough party bookings to get him 10% off of any purchases totaling over $500. It doesn’t get any better than that. The host couldn’t wait tell his wife about all of the money that he saved.

The party wound down and the dealer packed up his demonstration kit. Some of the guys helped him carry his stuff to his pick-up truck. The dealer drove away feeling really great about the sales.

If this level of success kept up then he would be able to do more than make child support payments with his party earnings. He just hoped that his ex didn’t find out that he had found a cash cow. She would want more milk for the babies and would try to skim the cream for herself.

Since the total party sales exceeded $2000, all of the guys in attendance were eligible for a discounted NRA membership. As the guys started filtering out to go home, the host made sure that each of them had an application for NRA membership in their hand, if they weren’t already a member.

Some of the guys were trying to get a poker game together before everyone left.

“I need some winnings to pay for my new four-in-one set.”

“You might end up paying for mine,” challenged another.

One of them called out as Jake was about to leave.

“Hey Jake! Don’t you want to play some poker?”

“Nah, I gotta’ get home before the flatulence sets in from the beer and chili.”

“We don’t give a whip if you blow a few farts, Jake.”

“Yeah, I know but I was thinking of my wife. She always says that I never bring anything back from these parties for her.” Jake grinned at his twisted humor and the guys all laughed.

The guys watched as Jake wobbled out and attempted to fit his key in the door lock of a blue jacked-up four-wheel drive Chevy truck. One of the guys ran out to intercept him. Jake was still fumbling with the key in the door lock.

“Are you okay, Jake?”

“Yeah, man, I’m fine. I only had four or five beers. I can’t get my key into the door lock, though. My key fob wouldn’t pop the locks either.”

“Jake, look at the truck and look at your key.”

The key had a Ford logo clearly stamped onto it. Jake backed up and looked at the truck.”

“Oh, man! I am so glad that you stopped me! This is almost the same shade of blue as my truck.”

“Its okay, Jake. Friends don’t let friends drive Chevys.”

Jake wobbled over to his blue jacked-up Ford F350, climbed in and was on his way home.