Oh Sweet Peacock Penis Have I Got A Crazy For You

I really feel as though I should seek employment with my Circle K because it seems like every major event in my life can be somehow Kevin Baconed back to a connection with that damnable Circkle K; and here's the latest:

I would like to tell you that what happened to me today was a terrible calamity. That somehow the negativity of the day's episode would change the course of my existence in some way or another. However, it was far less Draconian than all that and I could never really pull off the effective misanthrope thing.

No, what happened to me today was a mere inconvenience. One that cost more money and time than I would have liked, but a mere inconvenience none the less. Ironic it would happen to me outside of a Circle K.

I returned to my vehicle after puchasing an ice cold, sugar free Full Throttle, and a somewhat less titillating bottle of Aquafina water. I put the keys in the ignition, turned the key to the same degree I always do to start the car and. . . Lo and behold, no juice. Except there was juice. All the power came on, the A/C was pretending to be cold and all the bells and whistles lit up; but the engine wouldn't turn over. I had no idea what was wrong, so I started to freak out. But again it was more an, oh shit I'm missing the new episode of Desperate Housewives kind of freak out, as opposed to the, oh shit I'm missing the new episode of Family Guy; which would be a true tragedy in the Shakespearian sense of the word.

Okay, let's make what should never have become a long story short again by saying that it was the ignition. For patent reasons I had to go to the Ford dealership for a switch that cost $115.86, which I later found out actually costs a whopping $20.00 if you have connections. So I get the part back to my vehicle, my dad was with me at this point and we were going to attempt to do this ourselves, when I realize that we can't even get the old ignition out. I am going to blame this on shotty manufacturing, but it was probably just our own ineptitude. So, with much deliberation I call a locksmith, "sorry man, can't have anyone out until tomorrow." Then I call another, and another. Finally one of them refers me to this guy named Allen; at least I think that's what it was. Says he knows what he's doing and that I should call him because he can probably help me out right away. I was soon to learn why.

Allen the Locksmith rolls up in this very large former Wonder Bread, fading forest green truck; on which you can no longer read the name and number of this man's failing locksmith company.
He parks his beast, walks up to the doorless passenger side opening, and says. . .

I will pause the story for a moment here, for you must see the broken magnificence that I saw at that moment. He was tall, with deltoid length ratty blonde hair. His neck was too long for its own satisfaction and the wilted grey tank-top he wore was unpleasantly congruent. He had a gut/ beerbelly that was somewhat maintained by the shirt, and his fingernails reminded me of Gollum. Not just Gollum's fingernails but Gollums entire character. Everything that Tolkien intended to portray in that character was personified by this man's fingernails.

Now, I have worked my way down this man's physical make-up to this point, but I must say, from the waste down is the most magnificent of all. It's kind of like licking a schnozzberry.

Allen the Locksmith wore daisydukes the likes of which have never been seen. Half his arse was displayed for all who would never wish to behold such a monstrosity. Seriously, Ron Jeremy in an iron thong would have been more comfortable than this. Still, regardless of this spectacle there was something dangerously amiss. I looked as often as my stomach would permit to try and grasp just what it was, when suddenly I realized. . . This man had superb legs. I wish I were joking, but I realized how smooth and effortless this man's legs were; from perilous daisyduke hips to old worn socks and sandaled toes. It was then I decided to do more detailed research into this phenomenon. As I watched him do his locksmith thing I came to the disturbing observance that this Allen wore panty hose. And they must have been of good quality to peak my academic interest. Panty hose folks. Panty hose with man-daisydukes and velcro sandals with unwashed socks riddled with tiny holes of over use. This was the sight I beheld.

. . . "I'm gonna need the old ignition, along with the keys." His voice was distinctly Canadien, stressing the Os and speaking general irrelevance. If you have ever watched a Hockey game you know what I am talking about. He set the new ignition to the shape of my key in short time, had it set in my vehicle in even shorter time, and $60.00 later he was on his way. I do not dispute the man's aptitude for his particular field of work. He made my life normal again by simply doing what he does; and for that I thank him. I only hope he can do the rest of the social world a favor and take some of that $60.00 to buy himself a longer pair of shorts.