I was at the gym yesterday afternoon, sweating though the front end of my workout, when I got a Perverse Feeling.
Surrounded as I was by perspiring females (wimmen don’t sweat, as we all know: they perspire), I managed to stay focused on the Task at Hand...pumping that stationary bicycle.
I had my handy-dandy iPod with me, cranking out the usual twisted assortment of music. Beatles, Zappa, Chemical Brothers. Earbuds in, volume cranked up. Sweet.
And then...and then!...on comes Dean Martin, crooning “Memories Are Made Of This.”
And for some strange reason, I started thinking of terrible, evil acts...acts that could only be perpetrated with Dean-O’s mellow voice in the background...acts that would leave a taste in the mouth that could only be removed by copious dosages of Indian Food and Scotch Whisky.
Yes, I do believe I’ll have a couple of fingers of that 10-year old. Prepubescent Macallan...that’s Scotch, Esteemed Ones...