Fleshbot and Dumb Ass

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot tries to fit square pegs into round holes by looking into the near misses and the total wash outs. You can keep pounding away, but some things are too broken to fix.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me the muse for the latest inspiration from Lynsey: Sexed-Up Stickmas cards! Pick up a set for the stick figures on your holiday list.

There’s no guest DJ at the Smut Turntable this weekend, as I want to catch up on your requests. Keep ‘em coming!

Speaking of things being off, I am really quite the dumb ass. Yesterday had me running from meeting to meeting. Around noon, I left a meeting in Harlem to find myself facing a local fried chicken shop. There are many of these in upper Manhattan; many have operated for years under names ripped from KFC, such as Kennedy Fried Chicken and JFK Fried Chicken. You know the chicken is good when it’s served from behind bullet-proof glass.

Now, I happen to make a very fine fried chicken, and so I rarely eat it as fast food. But here I was, with a few moments to spare, staring at a photograph of a lunch special—two pieces, French fries and a drink for five dollars and sixty cents. I mulled it over and decided against it. I wasn’t in the mood for fries, and I just wasn’t that hungry. Anyway, five bucks for two pieces didn’t strike me as such a great deal. I hopped on the subway and headed to midtown for my next meeting, glad to have resisted temptation. Perhaps later I would pick up an apple.

Halfway into the meeting, I was starving. All I could think about was the fried chicken I had left behind in Harlem. Dumb ass.

Afterwards, I had to hurry to pick up Lillie from school. The last leg of that errand would be a long walk. It was a cold afternoon, and I decided to pick up coffee from a Korean deli. As I waited in line to pay, my eyes scanned the steam table, stopping at fried chicken wings. What’s the harm, I thought, in getting a few wings as a snack for my walk? Perhaps it would take my mind off this fixation on chicken. I took a plastic tray and loaded two wings. I walked away before going back for a third. I had lost my place in line, so I moved to the back of the queue.

The total came to three dollars and ninety-four cents. I opened my wallet to find I had no cash. “Do you take debit cards?” I asked.

“Five dollar minimum,” the cashier replied.

I was about a dollar shy of the minimum. I looked around. It might be nice to pick up a treat for Lillie. I decided against it, as I hated to spend money on something just to round up to five dollars. “Is there an ATM?” I asked. The cashier pointed to the corner. As I punched in my number, I noticed a branch of my bank across the street. I could use an ATM there for free, and the one at the deli would have a fee. I decided not to cross the street to save a little money. I was in hurry, and my fried wings were waiting on the counter. The fee was one dollar and ninety-five cents. I hit accept and out came a twenty.

I handed the bill to the cashier. As he counted the change, I realized what I had just done.

I had spent nearly two dollars on a fee, rather than one dollar on a treat.

Worse, I had now spent nearly six dollars for coffee and a few chicken wings—more than the cost of the lunch special I had passed over in Harlem.

Dumb ass.

I wasn’t feel too bright as I walked down the sidewalk, trying to balance a large cup of coffee in the crook of an arm while eating from the plastic tray I held to my chest. My fingers were greasy. All that would do now would be for me to drop the chicken, scalding myself in the process.

I was so focused on my balancing act that I bumped into someone. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, my mouth full.

“No problem,” Alan Alda smiled. He went on his way, reading a book as he strolled. He looked very smart in his glasses.

I licked my fingers and headed on my way. At least I hadn’t offered to shake Alan Alda’s hand.