National Public Radio & How I Learned To Piss and Drive In A Toga
I don�t listen to the radio much, or at all for that matter. It mostly has to do with my disdain for programming like Howard Stern, Loveline and Doctor Ruth, also throwing in for good measure that despite living in a major radio market, this state has virtually nothing when it comes to good radio stations. On top of the lack of quality radio available to me, I also can�t stand being told that �this band is awesome, their new album is stellar and this first single will rock you� only to suddenly here Creed being queued up. Of course you then hear the same song with the same tagline for weeks on end, while independent label bands and those that simply slipped under the radar are forced to use whatever advertising means they can scrape together because thy have been shunned by the radio waves. If this wasn�t enough motivation for me to avoid all things radio based in origin, my father has worked in the industry for nearly 30 years. During this time, I have had a ring side seat provided to me showing the intricate details to exactly how horribly unstable a career in this field can be.
Despite all these little details and my steadfast resolve not to fall victim to the propaganda machine, I have been listening to the radio for the better part of the week. Please understand, this is strictly for research purposes only and my solitary motivation is to have enough details and facts on hand to win an argument. The rest of the story goes that while debating the second presidential debate with a friend and his fairer sex significant other, the topic of NPR (National Public Radio for those of you not in the know) came up as a major and extremely important media source for independent thinking liberals. To which I replied, �BAH!�
This was apparently not the correct answer. We battled back and forth before I professed my complete and utter ignorance to the radio programming and a compromised was finally reached. I would listen to NPR for a two week time period and she would read everything I have written in the past couple of months before we could progress anywhere in further talks that were intellectual in nature. I have one week to go on my NPR trip and will make an assessment and report upon completion of this assignment. Ironically enough, this will also be my first official story for her as well; the reason for her digging into me so much on the radio thing is because she wants me to be a writer for the independent publication she is attempting to organize. Hence, my insistence she reads and decides if I�m worth the trouble of editing or not.
Toga party was on Saturday and was not the uproarious social event I had initially anticipated. There were certainly some wonderful moments that were worth mentioning that mostly had to do with the actual practical application and functionality of getting drunk in a toga.
My unobtainable crush decided to car pool with me, which was a grand decision because without her modeling expertise, I probably would have had my toga wrapped around me like a mummy. Instead, she gracefully arranged the slinky and silky material (that I only paid 12 bucks for) in such a way that I truly felt sexy while adorned like a Roman fluffer. The problem being, I was feeling sexy and comfortable in what amounted to being a skirt. The multiple wrappings around my mid-section added extra padding so I actually looked like I had an ass. In addition the way it was slung over my right shoulder covered up my birth mark and the layers hung in the back and around my left arm in just the right places that both of my tattoos were showing off quiet nicely. I was also the only person at the entire party to not wear a shirt, making me feel even more godlike in my appearance.
The instant I tried to sit down, I realized there were going to be problems. The toga itself was pulled rather tightly and it went past my knees, which I believed at the time to be historically accurate. While I sat testing my newly restricted leg movement another thought popped into my head and I was reminded of a drunken encounter I had in a far away bar. I snickered at myself for discussing with a drag queen the functionality of 7 inch spiked heals, but not the intricate details of hiking up a skirt in order to whip out my manhood when the numerous beers I was too drink finally recycled through my system. Being blessed with certain bits and pieces that are easy to find even wrapped up in my toga made this task easier than anticipated, but the fact that I felt �out of sorts� prompted me to check and then adjust the back of my toga that failed to slide back down leaving my backside exposed to the elements. I�m still confused at how I had instinct enough to realize this, seeing as how I�ve never been in a dress, skirt, kilt or Toga before. I did, however, promise to never mention this to my parents when recanting this tale to them.
Then there was the pool table. Drunken pool in any setting has mass appeal for me, especially when the setting is much more intimate as it would be at say�a toga themed house party. Again with the restriction of movement and the solution is to hike my costume up over my knees in order to get the bending mobility to obtain the necessary angle to make it at least look like I can shoot pool. I definitely looked like a classless whore doing so, but at least I managed to get a couple of games in.
Hands down the intricate details of toga VS motor vehicle drew the most laughs that night. Being the gentlemen that I sometimes claim to be, I drove. The initial entrance into my horse drawn chariot was pulled of with such ease that I exclaimed out loud to my passenger for her to heap praise upon me. Instead I was met with an arched brow and an inquiry of exactly how I knew to put my ass down first and then swivel my legs in second. Stammering and then stuttering and finally blushing shades of red that don�t exist until such situations occur, I had to share my dirty little secret. It turns out I have been a man for my entire life. As such, I am also keenly aware that I am a pervert and really, really, really like the shape and over all make up of the female body. At some point in my life, they I can not actually pinpoint, I was witness to a woman getting into or out of a vehicle while wearing a skirt the WRONG way. The wrong way allows anyone who happens to merely glance in the right direction at just the right time to catch a glimpse of what she is wearing underneath her skirt. Once this realization is made and the male brain draws the appropriate conclusion, the instinct of being a perverted male kicks in anytime such a situation is placed before me. Depending on how you look at it, I either have an amazing grasp for details or just really enjoy women in skirts.
If it is any consolation to the female populace in regards to my perverted skirt peeking misgivings, I failed to properly negotiate my exit as well as my entrance and promptly fell out of the car. So the next time I am out and about, with fairer sex friends or just eavesdropping and I happen to hear a lady complain about how tough it is to walk in high heels and mini-skirts�well shit, I�m still going to stop and stare when she sits down, but at least this time I will be able to nod sympathetically and say, �I like totally know how you feel.�
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