It Happened And I Still Don't Believe It.
Ok, I'm going to tell a story. Fair warning, and cut-tagged, because, well, storytime.
Two things about me that relate to this story. First of all, I commute between home and New York City via bus. This is usually a simple process, but on rare occasions it can become complex. Tonight was one such occasion, as I was A) catching a late bus, B) carrying two large Duane Reade bags full of alcohol and a shoulder bag, and C) not quite on time for my late bus. As such, I got the last seat on the bus. This was all the way in the back, wedged between the bus bathroom and a couple with two babies in the two seats next to me. I was leaning forward a lot, partly to protect my bags and partly because my tremendous ass had little space to go anywhere else.
Second of all, while my friends will repeatedly profess that I am a handsome specimen of the male gender, I am still surprised as all hell when someone hits on me. It really doesn't happen that often, and as a result, I'm always taken off-guard by it and therefore I handle it like a complete idiot. Some folks will also say that I handle everything like a complete idiot. I might not be able to argue that point. But it's irrelevant to the topic at hand.
So, onward to the story.
I'm on the bus. I'm leaning really far forward in my seat, almost to the point of being in the next row. I'm covering my bags of alcohol (nine bottles in two Duane Reade bags, plus one in my shoulder bag). I'm hot and sweaty, and that's not in a good sexy way. My breath might possibly smell of gin. I'm really not at my best, and my best is only moderate to begin with. (EDIT: Although I am wearing a nice suit and power tie, both of which have been soiled by angledge and her chica. See this story for more details on President Bush.)
The lady sitting directly in front of me, which is almost to my side since I'm leaning so far forward, starts up with some small talk about commuting and travel and stuff. I'm a diplomat; every so often I can handle small talk. At least for a few seconds. So I follow up.
She keeps talking, and becomes more conversational. Somewhere in the deep and not-very-well-used recesses of my brain, something stirs. 'Dude', it says, 'I think she's macking on you.'
'NO WAI!'
'Shut up with that and pay attention. Macking is going on here, and you are, as always, clueless.'
I begin to pay a bit more attention. Perhaps macking IS really going on here, to my surprise. She's conversational, friendly, smiling, and so on. But rah bah bah, I'm gross and not really in Peak Mack Daddy Condition. There's nothing I can do to follow through. I have nothing to offer except a few gallons of alcohol.
Until she says "I'm a psychic. Here's my card." The card does indeed say "READINGS BY ******, PSYCHIC TAROT CARD READER."
'Dude!' says the foreign dusty part of my brain, 'She's a PSYCHIC. Do you have ANY idea how awesomely whack that is?'
'Dude,' says I, 'She's a PSYCHIC. She can totally hear you.'
'OH SHIT!' I don't hear from that part of my brain again.
I'm going to go on the record and say that I've never been hit on by a psychic before. Is there a proper protocol? Do I have to give her my number? I mean, doesn't she know? This must be how Cyclops felt when he and Jean Grey were first getting it on.
She tells me to call her and we can go out for drinks. Will drinking with a psychic lower my psionic defenses and leave my brain helpless to her telepathic ways? Or will it armor me, clouding my thoughts with a neural haze that will block her sinister probes? Curiosity is absolutely KILLING me here.
I'm going to call Miss Cleo. She'll know what to do.
Also, just for shits and giggles...
My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is:
Count-Palatine Chaosvizier the Fortunate of Buzzcock Lepshire
Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title
Huh huh, they said "buzzcock", huh huh.
Two things about me that relate to this story. First of all, I commute between home and New York City via bus. This is usually a simple process, but on rare occasions it can become complex. Tonight was one such occasion, as I was A) catching a late bus, B) carrying two large Duane Reade bags full of alcohol and a shoulder bag, and C) not quite on time for my late bus. As such, I got the last seat on the bus. This was all the way in the back, wedged between the bus bathroom and a couple with two babies in the two seats next to me. I was leaning forward a lot, partly to protect my bags and partly because my tremendous ass had little space to go anywhere else.
Second of all, while my friends will repeatedly profess that I am a handsome specimen of the male gender, I am still surprised as all hell when someone hits on me. It really doesn't happen that often, and as a result, I'm always taken off-guard by it and therefore I handle it like a complete idiot. Some folks will also say that I handle everything like a complete idiot. I might not be able to argue that point. But it's irrelevant to the topic at hand.
So, onward to the story.
I'm on the bus. I'm leaning really far forward in my seat, almost to the point of being in the next row. I'm covering my bags of alcohol (nine bottles in two Duane Reade bags, plus one in my shoulder bag). I'm hot and sweaty, and that's not in a good sexy way. My breath might possibly smell of gin. I'm really not at my best, and my best is only moderate to begin with. (EDIT: Although I am wearing a nice suit and power tie, both of which have been soiled by angledge and her chica. See this story for more details on President Bush.)
The lady sitting directly in front of me, which is almost to my side since I'm leaning so far forward, starts up with some small talk about commuting and travel and stuff. I'm a diplomat; every so often I can handle small talk. At least for a few seconds. So I follow up.
She keeps talking, and becomes more conversational. Somewhere in the deep and not-very-well-used recesses of my brain, something stirs. 'Dude', it says, 'I think she's macking on you.'
'NO WAI!'
'Shut up with that and pay attention. Macking is going on here, and you are, as always, clueless.'
I begin to pay a bit more attention. Perhaps macking IS really going on here, to my surprise. She's conversational, friendly, smiling, and so on. But rah bah bah, I'm gross and not really in Peak Mack Daddy Condition. There's nothing I can do to follow through. I have nothing to offer except a few gallons of alcohol.
Until she says "I'm a psychic. Here's my card." The card does indeed say "READINGS BY ******, PSYCHIC TAROT CARD READER."
'Dude!' says the foreign dusty part of my brain, 'She's a PSYCHIC. Do you have ANY idea how awesomely whack that is?'
'Dude,' says I, 'She's a PSYCHIC. She can totally hear you.'
'OH SHIT!' I don't hear from that part of my brain again.
I'm going to go on the record and say that I've never been hit on by a psychic before. Is there a proper protocol? Do I have to give her my number? I mean, doesn't she know? This must be how Cyclops felt when he and Jean Grey were first getting it on.
She tells me to call her and we can go out for drinks. Will drinking with a psychic lower my psionic defenses and leave my brain helpless to her telepathic ways? Or will it armor me, clouding my thoughts with a neural haze that will block her sinister probes? Curiosity is absolutely KILLING me here.
I'm going to call Miss Cleo. She'll know what to do.
Also, just for shits and giggles...
My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is:
Count-Palatine Chaosvizier the Fortunate of Buzzcock Lepshire
Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title
Huh huh, they said "buzzcock", huh huh.