There's Something About Olga
I think there might be something terribly wrong with me.
Not in the whole ‘tuck-your-penis-between-your-legs-and-model-
your-mangina-in-a-full-length-mirror-kinda-way’, but in a more ‘Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot-kinda-way *.
I discovered this about myself while engaged in a rather awkward conversation with my butcher this morning. You see; my butcher also happens to be an 87-year-old Polish woman with breasts that look like two grapefruits suspended in a pair of tube socks named Olga. I’ve been “seeing” Olga for all my protein needs now every weekend for the past five years.
She’s the closest thing I’ve had to a steady girlfriend in the last decade.
So this morning, like most other Sunday mornings, I found myself engaged in the usual conversational banter of selecting my weekly meat cuts with Olga. Somewhere during our detailed discussion of fleshy grillables I made the decision to BBQ a nice, fat, New York Sirloin steak for New Years this year. And so we set about the task of selecting my cut.
“Vat kind of sirloin steak are you vooking for today?” Olga asked dutifully.
“A nice, fat one.” I reply coyly.
“Jah! A nice vat one vould be nice.” Olga says as she winks and begins to rummage through the stacks of pink steaks.
A flicker of unholy anticipation begins to pass through my loins.
“It would”, I reply cautiously. Are we still talking about steaks here?
“I am very good at dis you know.” Olga offers conversationally while she pokes and prods the various oblong cutlets, looking for just the right one.
“What do you mean?” I ask innocently.
“I am very good at vinding da vat ones for you, jah? For many years now we look for da vat ones together, jah?” Olga says. “I like da vat ones too.” She points her finger at me from across the display case. “Like you like da vat ones.”
At this point I’m beginning to feel more than a little awkward.
Here I am, getting aroused over a conversation about steak with my 87-year-old butcher. I guess all this talk of “vat ones” is beginning to make me a little randy. I feel like I'm losing control of my kingdom. Any more of this “vat one” talk and I was going to find myself walking across the deli floor to the checkout sporting a full-on erection in my green pajama pants - leading the way like some perverted Irish Pointer.
And I'm sure there would be a 911 call placed shortly afterward. What a way to end 2007!
My cheeks flushed red, and my feet began to shuffle uncomfortably. Suddenly, I was that little 5-year-old kindergarten kid with a crush on teacher. Except my teacher then didn’t have droopy tits and rheumatism in her joints; nor was she rifling through a stack of NY sirloins at the time.
I suddenly felt dirty…very dirty.
I almost dropped my brown paper-packaged shame on the counter and ran for the exit or crash through the front window - whatever was more prompt and convenient. Luckily, Olga then decided to launch herself into a violent spasm of wet coughs that resonated inside her chest and echoed off the deli walls. It sounded like a sperm whales last grasp for breath before dying.
That sure set me right again and restored control of my kingdom in a hurry….
I’ve since decided to go with lasagna for New Years.
* Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot = WTF = What the fuck?…you rube.
Not in the whole ‘tuck-your-penis-between-your-legs-and-model-
your-mangina-in-a-full-length-mirror-kinda-way’, but in a more ‘Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot-kinda-way *.
I discovered this about myself while engaged in a rather awkward conversation with my butcher this morning. You see; my butcher also happens to be an 87-year-old Polish woman with breasts that look like two grapefruits suspended in a pair of tube socks named Olga. I’ve been “seeing” Olga for all my protein needs now every weekend for the past five years.
She’s the closest thing I’ve had to a steady girlfriend in the last decade.
So this morning, like most other Sunday mornings, I found myself engaged in the usual conversational banter of selecting my weekly meat cuts with Olga. Somewhere during our detailed discussion of fleshy grillables I made the decision to BBQ a nice, fat, New York Sirloin steak for New Years this year. And so we set about the task of selecting my cut.
“Vat kind of sirloin steak are you vooking for today?” Olga asked dutifully.
“A nice, fat one.” I reply coyly.
“Jah! A nice vat one vould be nice.” Olga says as she winks and begins to rummage through the stacks of pink steaks.
A flicker of unholy anticipation begins to pass through my loins.
“It would”, I reply cautiously. Are we still talking about steaks here?
“I am very good at dis you know.” Olga offers conversationally while she pokes and prods the various oblong cutlets, looking for just the right one.
“What do you mean?” I ask innocently.
“I am very good at vinding da vat ones for you, jah? For many years now we look for da vat ones together, jah?” Olga says. “I like da vat ones too.” She points her finger at me from across the display case. “Like you like da vat ones.”
At this point I’m beginning to feel more than a little awkward.
Here I am, getting aroused over a conversation about steak with my 87-year-old butcher. I guess all this talk of “vat ones” is beginning to make me a little randy. I feel like I'm losing control of my kingdom. Any more of this “vat one” talk and I was going to find myself walking across the deli floor to the checkout sporting a full-on erection in my green pajama pants - leading the way like some perverted Irish Pointer.
And I'm sure there would be a 911 call placed shortly afterward. What a way to end 2007!
My cheeks flushed red, and my feet began to shuffle uncomfortably. Suddenly, I was that little 5-year-old kindergarten kid with a crush on teacher. Except my teacher then didn’t have droopy tits and rheumatism in her joints; nor was she rifling through a stack of NY sirloins at the time.
I suddenly felt dirty…very dirty.
I almost dropped my brown paper-packaged shame on the counter and ran for the exit or crash through the front window - whatever was more prompt and convenient. Luckily, Olga then decided to launch herself into a violent spasm of wet coughs that resonated inside her chest and echoed off the deli walls. It sounded like a sperm whales last grasp for breath before dying.
That sure set me right again and restored control of my kingdom in a hurry….
I’ve since decided to go with lasagna for New Years.
* Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot = WTF = What the fuck?…you rube.
posted by crazytigerrabbitman at
11:14 AM
|
1 comments
