I don't say this to brag, but yesterday I got a bit of unexpected action in my bathing suit region.
Unexpected, and somewhat unpleasant, unfortunately.
Cruising along the Blackfoot Trail, with its steady volume of traffic clipping along pretty well, I suddenly became aware of a crawling sensation working its way up my inner thigh. A creepy, crawly, squirmy sensation that, the instant I felt it, drove me to the edge of panic.
Clearly, there was an insect of indeterminate size working its way towards my family jewels; a prospect that, even though I haven't had much activity in the nether regions over the past half year, did not thrill me in the least.
I immediately began fumbling with my belt buckle like an adolescent virgin on Grad night who, as the result of some dry humping on a hotel pool table, is getting very close to having his first shared sexual experience solo.
The belt buckle beat, I went to work on unlocking my button fly--my driving had begun to suffer, but it didn't occur to me to pull over--THERE WASN'T TIME!--I had to get whatever it was in my trousers OUT (and by OUT I mean I wanted it done, like, yesterday).
Thank God; I could use two hands on the rapidly developing situation in my pants. . .
. . . and that's when I heard a voice float through my open window.
A voice which seemed to float from somewhere above me.
A voice which was clearly addressing me:
V- "What year is that?"
With both hands busy pushing my trousers down towards my ankles, and my eyes fixed like a hungry dog on my thighs for any sign of life, I had two choices: look up and calmly answer, "It's a '68! Ain't she a beaut?"; pretend that I don't hear.
Ever the salesman, I looked up into the face of a plumber, who was peering down with admiration from his Super Hemi 4x4 Monster Machine.
B- "It's a '68! Ain't she a beaut?"
V- "She sure is. Where'd you get the paint job done?"
B- "Toronto. It's a beauty of a paint job, eh?"
V- "It's a beauty all right."
Traffic lights are always too long--this one was endless.
By the time the lights turned green, the only thing that had improved was my trouser infestation, which seemed to have solved itself.
Maybe the plumber had seen nothing, transfixed by the lovely chrome and lime green beauty that is my four wheels?
V- (as they pulled away)"Well--won't keep you from your business. Good luck with that. Har har har!"
No such luck.
And as I pressed the gas, I felt some squirming and fluttering down my right pant leg.
Son of a bitch!
It eventually turned out to be a moth.
I kept expecting to get an email sent to the Roundhouse outlining how someone had encountered a Steam Whistle salesman in a green truck interfering with himself on a 'family highway'. I would have blamed altitude sickness.