Things mom never told you about anal sex.

Never short on supply of terminally crazy residents, Parkdale pleased last night during the cocktail hour I was sharing with friends on the porch.

My twin, C, and my rocker roomie D, were tippling the good stuff when an old friend strolled by sipping from a can of Guiness. He was merry enough for the four of us.

A- (calling out to any one of the three of us on the porch)"Are you man enough to take me? The man-child?"
B- "I don't reckon we are!"
A- "I don't reckon you are, either. You callin' me nigger? I'll call you. . . white nigger!"

Then he turned his smiling menace on some pretty pedestrians walking by on the other side of the street. I imagine they crossed after hearing his exchange with us, not wishing to be a party to the loud shouting of racial epithets. He was flirtatious:

A- "Hey laaaadies! Let me spend some time with you! I promise not to put it in your ass; I don't want no fart burns on my dick!"

He looked back at us as if to say, 'Fellas, you know what I'm talking about here, don't you? Those fart burns?'. We looked back as if to say, 'Damn those fart burns!'; I hope it read from twenty paces.

A- (to D, who was puffing on a Belmont Mild)"Hey buddy! You got a smoke? No? Probably your last one, eh? Well. . . I'll share something with you. A fart. But it's not just for you; all must share it!" (and again, louder) "ALL MUST SHARE IT!"

Immediately, the mantra from my youth spent in Beavers sprang to mind: sharing sharing sharing. I even did the Beaver Tail slap in my mind. Wooooop--SMACK!
While I was daydreaming, A flitted out of sight; but he left us with his infectious energy, his love of life, and, of course, his fart. The evening, we all knew, was looking up.

Like The Littlest Hobo, he just keeps movin' on.

Maybe tomorrow. . .