Fluffer nuttersBill's Briefs, Bottom Highlights Thursday, May 23rd, 2013
Social Chaos: Bill's Briefs
I may be treading into dangerous territory here. I know this is a family oriented magazine, but as a topic this is something my loyal fans can sink their teeth into.
My years in Japan often left me in the dark as to newly coined slang words. I was aware of the many meanings of nuts and friends far more familiar than I with sin and degradation had acquainted me with the usage of the word fluff as it applies to an alleged occupation in the world of cinematography, but one surely not to be found in an IRS jobs description list.
To me, fluff always meant something light and airy; it had nothing to do with anything sticky and gooey, so when a friend announced he was coming over with some fluffer nutters and asked if I preferred smooth or with nuts, I blindly chose with. Further confusion ensued when trying for further clarification, I enquired as to how many and he said, “A couple of regulars and two with cherries.” He then finished with, “You won’t be able to keep your hands off them, but remember the cherries are mine.” Shocked and bewildered my mind reeled with wild possibilities.
When they finally arrived, I realized what I’d been missing. A new world of sin and forbidden fruits, so to speak, opened up. To hell with my diet. The treats were a delicious concoction of marshmallow fluff and peanut butter … who knew? It was like discovering s’mores all over again.
So family concerns or not … go ahead, let the kids have some.
Keys to your kingdom
Nestling (alone) in my queen-size bed (please, no cracks … it’s too easy), I was awakened at 2 a.m. by the ear-shattering blare of a siren a few feet from my window and a few seconds later it was joined by a second creating a tumult that could only be proclaiming the Second Coming.
I leapt, sort of, to the window to view the heavenly descent. Alas, I was dismayed to see a drunken neighbor with a quartet of police officers.
From what I could hear, it seems after tearing up the patio garden, he had called 911. He claimed someone had stolen the spare house key from its clever sanctuary under a plastic “fool the burglar” rock. Actually, the police car’s flashing red light was being reflected in the rock’s cheap, shiny surface and it was slyly winking at me.
Mr. Drunk couldn’t find it because he was trying to enter the look-alike town house beside his. The hullabaloo soon ended after an irate onlooker kindly shouted, “Next door, asshole!”
All this has reminded me of my duty to nag you all about your spare key. It is amazing how many people do not have one. And what pitiful excuses: I’m getting one soon. They cost too much. I’ll never need it. etc.
How foolish. You might as well not get fire insurance because you are never going to have a fire. Equally foolish are those who hide it under the obvious welcome mat and flower pot.
Get at least three keys; hide one in a really secret place, give another to a friend in your building and yet another to an outside friend. This will put your mind at rest. You can enter if you lose your key and more importantly in an emergency, which at our age we are likely to have, someone can get into your apartment quickly without taking a long time getting permission to break down the door.
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