My job has many perks. Things like, I get my own laptop and cellular telephone. I just found out it has detrimental effects on my testicles. Aren’t you lucky I’m a decent cook.
It’s also necessary for me to continue my travels down to Nice. While that may sound fun, I’d like to tell you a story. Years ago I used to cook at fairly nice steak house. I wore checkered pants and kept a thermometer clipped to the breast pocket of my chef’s coat. I never actually took anyone’s temperature, but since it was an open kitchen and we were always in the public’s view, I convinced myself that wearing a thermometer would make the customer feel as though I knew what I was doing. Also, it was red and I thought it looked handsome with my white coat.
The meat dishes were nice; our core competency resting in the tender, delectable production of grilled filet mignon on a mass scale. The perk of this job of course being able to eat for free. What I’m getting at is, yeah, filet mignon doesn’t suck. But eating filet multiple times a week for over a year causes you to lose the appreciation of what was once a succulent, tasty treat.
Nice, France is my filet mignon. An undercooked medium-rare specimen of third-world red meat served with a side of limp freedom fries and a ceramic ramekin of warm, spicy mustard. Also, I have to fly into Terminal 2 and it’s just a bitch to get to my hotel.
Usually I stay at the Park Inn by the airport because I like the colors of their décor and I don’t have to bend over in the showers. That didn’t come out right. Um. . .there’s ample head room in the showers. Yes. However, this time I stayed at the No(tell)votel down the street, which is a clean option B.
You’re prolly already aware of my propensity for wardrobe removal. This night was no exception, and after reading the aforementioned article on the probable consequences my Blackberry may pose upon my male genitalia, I chose to remove my drawers, draping them neatly across the arm of the couch, giving the boys free reign over my king size bed. Besides, why dirty up a clean pair of day-old boxers?
Now here’s where things went strange. I slept. I dreamt of you. And I woke up.
Wearing my male undergarments.
That could make me anything from a sleep-dresser to a victim. But you’re not here to judge are you.
It’s also necessary for me to continue my travels down to Nice. While that may sound fun, I’d like to tell you a story. Years ago I used to cook at fairly nice steak house. I wore checkered pants and kept a thermometer clipped to the breast pocket of my chef’s coat. I never actually took anyone’s temperature, but since it was an open kitchen and we were always in the public’s view, I convinced myself that wearing a thermometer would make the customer feel as though I knew what I was doing. Also, it was red and I thought it looked handsome with my white coat.
The meat dishes were nice; our core competency resting in the tender, delectable production of grilled filet mignon on a mass scale. The perk of this job of course being able to eat for free. What I’m getting at is, yeah, filet mignon doesn’t suck. But eating filet multiple times a week for over a year causes you to lose the appreciation of what was once a succulent, tasty treat.
Nice, France is my filet mignon. An undercooked medium-rare specimen of third-world red meat served with a side of limp freedom fries and a ceramic ramekin of warm, spicy mustard. Also, I have to fly into Terminal 2 and it’s just a bitch to get to my hotel.
Usually I stay at the Park Inn by the airport because I like the colors of their décor and I don’t have to bend over in the showers. That didn’t come out right. Um. . .there’s ample head room in the showers. Yes. However, this time I stayed at the No(tell)votel down the street, which is a clean option B.
You’re prolly already aware of my propensity for wardrobe removal. This night was no exception, and after reading the aforementioned article on the probable consequences my Blackberry may pose upon my male genitalia, I chose to remove my drawers, draping them neatly across the arm of the couch, giving the boys free reign over my king size bed. Besides, why dirty up a clean pair of day-old boxers?
Now here’s where things went strange. I slept. I dreamt of you. And I woke up.
Wearing my male undergarments.
That could make me anything from a sleep-dresser to a victim. But you’re not here to judge are you.
