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Wednesday, October 5, 2022

Showtime and the Long Dog

My sister Divana: "If you had to write about anything or anyone other than Divana, I’m glad it was about cows."

But back to the Dairy. Let's see now, where were we?

Eventually, this blog is about Vegas. But not just yet.

Showtime, man-spreading his massive arms, pylon legs rooted in the floor, sweating, gap-grinned, a ridiculously muscled figure in lime green Lululemon tights and a wife beater. Showtime, with a weird Julius Caesar haircut that featured too-small greasy bangs combed straight down over his somewhat lumpy forehead. Showtime, his voice shaking the diner like a carnival barker, "IT'S... SHOWTIME!"

I could have sworn I heard a cricket, and then a quiet voice said, "Hey Paul."

Carl. Then "Dad, it's okay, I'll put those away, go upstairs for a rest."

Paul aka Showtime started at the Royal Canadian Veeblefetzer grommet plant a few years ago. When he's not at the plant hoisting heavy cases of grommets around, he's in the Flusherville Flashpants Gym, or hanging out in the local nightspots. Paul's favorite subjects are his muscles, Paul, Paul's muscles, how Paul's muscles get women, and what people think about Paul's muscles.

On his first day, Paul strolled into the lunch room at the plant with a shit-eating grin, and announced for all to hear, "It's... SHOWTIME!".

This was met with slightly curious indifference, and most of us went back to Euchre and ignored him. It didn't take much more than a day or two to realize that he did this every stinking time he entered a room. Sometimes it didn't even take a room, a group of three or more people standing and talking in the parking lot could trigger an It's Showtime! out of him.

By day three everyone had forgotten his given name - he was Showtime the man, Showtime the entrance, Showtime the annoyance.

Showtime made a beeline for our table and without hesitation, swung his hips in, pushed, and slid Dwiggie across the cracked Naugahyde-covered bench into the dungeon corner of the booth, right against the wall, trapped.

"I just did an awesome arm workout, look at the detail on my arms! It's incredible!" said Showtime, flexing and practically elbowing Dwiggie in the ear. The acrid burned rubber smell of armpit filled the air, even muscling out the steaming stench of multi decades old spinning long dogs.

Carl came over with a tray of waters and a little pad. "What can I get you?" Waters down on the table, he whipped a pen out from behind his ear.

"What are you guys having?" asked Showtime.

"Carl, I'll take a couple of long dogs and a root beer float," I said.

Jimmy Poon looked at me and I gave him a kick under the table. We locked eyes and a few seconds went by. I raised one eyebrow.

"Go ahead, Jimmy..." I said, willing him silently to understand.

"Long dog, Carl. Tea," said Jimmy Poon. He smiled.

"I've already ordered..." said Dwiggie. Then very quietly, "...two long dogs." Carl didn't seem to hear him.

Showtime eyed us all, his grin opening up again like a moldy fetid cave. "Three long dogs. Quart of chocolate milk. Hope the dogs are as long as me, I'm pretty hung." There was no indication whatsoever that Showtime was making a joke.

Showtime regaled us with the latest tales of his muscles, his body, his workouts, and his dating life. Jimmy Poon wisely escaped and went and talked to Carl and Dad.

"With my body, it's pretty easy to get women. They practically beg me to go home with them. When I first take off my clothes and show them my body... they gasp," said Showtime.

It was now or never. Before Jimmy Poon could slide into the booth, I slid out, making it in just three ass-bumps. Hup Hup Hup. Showtime barely noticed, yammering into Dwiggie's ear about his Creatine and Rub A535 regimen.

I went to the end of the counter, out of Showtime's view, and motioned Carl over. "Change of plans, Carl," I said. Carl listened to the rest, nodded, and smiled.

Back at the table we found our voices and employed the 'change the subject away from Showtime' tactic, but it failed miserably. Showtime had a way of finding the weight training or getting women side to every topic, and off he would go.

By the time we were about ready to plunge a fork into Showtime's acne covered forehead, Carl arrived with a tray full of food and plopped three glistening, cracked, greasy, slightly green long dogs perched uncomfortably in dried out buns in front of Showtime.

"It's... SHOWTIME!" he said to the dogs, which resembled wet mongrel tails more than they did food.

In front of Dwiggie a CHEESEBURGER (per the ancient on-the-wall menu placard) made from a fresh ground beef patty landed, still sizzling, along with a side of golden brown freshly made fries, and a Coke. Practically before the plate hit the table, Showtime reached out and grabbed a mittful of fries and shoved them in his mouth. He chewed and stared at Dwiggie, grinning, daring him to do something about it.

I had my own CHEESEBURGER with onion rings and coleslaw, and Jimmy scored a BACON LETTUCE TOMATO sandwich, piled high with crispy hot bacon, slathered with mayo. It looked amazing.

"Float's coming, Royal. Tea for Jimmy, too," said Carl.

Showtime looked at the cornucopia of diner food on the table, and then down at his three mealy stray dogs. "I thought you guys were all having long dogs."

I took a huge bite of my delicious burger. "Musta been out. Or a mistake. Wish I had dogs...".

Showtime shrugged, reached in front of Dwiggie to grab the mustard and ketchup squeeze bottles, and got busy devouring the dodgy dogs. 

"Reach in front of my mouth again Showtime and I'm going to bite it. I'm hungry!" said Dwiggie. He glanced at me and gave me a wink.

"This babe I met at the Flashpants a couple of weeks ago loved to bite. I had sex bruises on my deltoids. After, I showed her my competition flexes - she loved my pose-down routine."

The huge bites of food from the last century didn't slow Showtime's mouth down at all, as he continued to talk, talk, talk, choppers loaded with pinkish brown frankfurter, mustard decorating his gob.

"Some of the women I date can barely handle my girth," he said, then laughed as mushy hunks of dog and bread dropped to the table. "They whimper, and then beg for mercy!"

"I'm surprised you know the word girth," I said.

"You're gonna be begging for mercy, Showtime," muttered Jimmy Poon. I stifled a laugh.

"I think these long dogs are going to super fuel my leg workout this afternoon. I can leg press the weight of a Ford F-150."

The long dogs disappeared in about two minutes, total. Showtime downed his quart carton of chocolate milk, let out a belch followed by 'Shabba' for some reason, and threw a five dollar bill on the table.

"Gotta run, I've got a personal training session with a hot blonde client named Tiffany. I've seen her admiring my gluteus maximuses, so I'll probably be able to bed her later, once she sees all of my physique."

Dwiggie started to point out that five bucks wouldn't near cover the cost of Showtime's order, but I waved him off. It was worth a few bucks to get rid of Showtime as soon as possible.

I could only imagine what kind of post-gutbomb accidents he was likely to have later as he leg-pressed the weight of a pickup truck.

We heard an It's Showtime!!! as Paul re-entered the convenience store, and then, thank God, he was gone, screen door WHAM wham whamming behind him.

"Oh man, that was brilliant," said Dwiggie. "He's gonna pay all right, through the sphincter."

We laughed until we cried, and finished eating.

"Showtime's gonna be the one to gasp, when the long dogs melt his Lululemons!" I said.

Dad shuffled from behind the counter with a tray, to start bussing the dirty dishes and to wipe up the spattered remains of bits of long dog.

"Dad, that's okay, I've got it. Here Dad, you go sit down," said Carl, leaping into the breach. "Any trips planned, Royal? You haven't been to Vegas in a while."

"As a matter of fact, Carl, I do have a trip coming up!"

And I explained it all to Carl and the lads.


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    1 comment:

    1. Its been two weeks since the last update..Hopefully your in vegas now working up a new trip report!


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