My promiscuous pole of pleasure(Russell E. Teed) Promiscuity in the morning

“Oh my, come on over here big boy, I’ve been waiting for you all night. Don’t be shy, come handle me with your masculine hands and give me a big squeeze. You know you want me, you know you need me. I promise to leave you with an ear-to-ear glimmering smile. Good God take me you gorgeous hunk of man for God’s sake take me now!”

This is how my each and every day begins. That was an impression of my tooth brush, if it could talk, and I believe mine can.

This account is about a life changing event that I will not soon forget. After a soothing mouth mopping of the molars the next activity on the agenda is to baste into the shower.

Upon completion of my self-sanitization I stepped out of warm rejuvenating rain machine on a cold wintry morning while still thinking of my superbly perceptive tooth brush. As I scurry through my vigorous toweling choreography I heard my cell phone ring.

With the morning sunlight sneaking through the shades and landing on my glistening body I cleared my eyes with my lush thirsty towel and answered it. It was my calorically over-enhanced friend inquiring for one good reason why McDonalds doesn’t have the McRib year round.

After a heated verbal fisticuff about the allure of givith and taketh away and his inane interruptions in my life, I returned to my toweling routine only to realize I hadn’t a clue where I left off.

My post-shower dehydrating activities had, somewhere between youth and adult, become an automatism and now I have to start the whole ordeal all over again from the beginning. I not sure I was fully clean, I feel clean, yet not Zestfully clean.

I think my indiscriminate bathroom scale just wants people to get weighed. When I stepped off the gravity measuring machine I decided that I’m going to enroll it in a habitual liars club!

You know, some days I just don’t have the wherewithal to correct my inadvertent reversely applied shirt and I wear it as-is. I tell everyone that notices that my shirt is incorrectly positioned, and that I was simply facing the wrong way when I put it on.

Then I proceeded with my usual rendition of "Old Time Rock & Roll" into the hair brush/microphone. This is performed with a sincere, but overly exaggerated singer’s grimace pasted on my face and vociferated into the mirror.

After my self-serenade it was off to my dear old friend Mr. hair dryer, I chagrinned; my black hair dryer had been replaced by a pink hair dryer. Completely shocked I thought to myself; am I so enthralled in my Neanderthal primitive manhood that I can't use a pink hair dryer? The answer is emphatically yes, and it's utterly emasculating.

I decided that I would have a black hair dryer and I have the final say in the matter. Under no circumstance would I ever use that pink effeminate appliance. I'm going to adamantly demand my old friend back, no questions, just demands, there is no room for debate.

Heretofore; the agreement was that the pink dryer will work out just fine. I decided to grow into acceptance and surrender my high testosterone mannerisms for open mindedness. I made this decision on my own volition without any coercement or threat. Suddenly, however, I have the insatiable urge to brush my teeth again…

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