It was an Xmas feast. I stuffed my fat face. I even fell asleep. What a menu. My only objection was the lack of women, but what [do] you want in a rackroom? I hear Flo was trying to contact me? Maybe she’s pregnant. Could be just about anything, knowing her. I just saw the little Smitty’s waitress in some tight jeans. That waitress uniform doesn’t do a thing for her. I would give a ransom for a girl like that. Young, tall, long-legged beauty. Healthy, and just the thought alone that she hasn’t slept with 50 assholes. How alluring, so very intriguing. There’s nothing worse than walking down the street with a girl and having somebody like that Paul Bernies snap his fingers as you pass. That’s back to my old adage—if you see me with a girl, I’m sleeping with her. It’s the pussyfooting around I’ve always hated.
[Author’s note: it seems I was a little less restrictive about talking about women back when there was little chance of any of this being published. I know it doesn’t really say anything, but I never had the incentive to brag about my women. I knew I was getting more than my share.
Paul Bernie was the dumped boyfriend of the gal I was dating. She saw him in her teens, when she was impressed by his job as a ski instructor. He still thought he could get her back from me. Never happened. Sigh, that’s Judy, the gal I had to let go because no way was I into marriage before I finished university. Plus, she practiced a lot of social brinkmanship.]
