No substance, but those beloved may find it cool that today was a good day out in America, and the end is nigh, likely about two weeks nigh. Yes, I'm saying that after one more trip, in two weeks, the frequency of my proctological examination of one exit on a major U.S. interstate highway will decline dramatically. Ilse, Databoy, and Bam-Bam (who yesterday had his first major Landru-separation meltdown of the whole bloody 7-month horror show) are all claiming to be overjoyed. I'll choose to believe them.
Stories, however, will have to be told privately, rather than here.
Okay, one story that won't pinpoint the customer or the job: TSA touched my junk the other day. I mean, I think I'm now bigamously gay married to a TSO at National Airport, though I'll credit him that he didn't seem real thrilled by the idea either. They told me that the body scanner found "an anomaly" in my "private area." I offered to drop trou, but they said we'd still have to have homo handsex. Apparently they were sufficiently unimpressed by the magnitude of my junk that they didn't find it necessary to make me show them the prosthetic.
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