Writings » He's Got Hot Legs

He's Got Hot Legs

By Buttermilk Baby at 2007-10-15 | Ridiculous! | Printable version

     It was five minutes until the dance-off and I was sweating buckets.  My palms were like potato pancakes, and I'm not even going to explain the marshland in my briefs.  The contest is annual, but this is the first time Donny Hot Thighs takes the stage.  Gotta show 'em, gotta show 'em what this greaser can do.  And not "greaser" in the traditional sense.  I'm Italian, Italian as hell, and well, you get the point.

     I made my way to the judge's booth, offering out sexual favors like handshakes.  Too bad no one was in the mood to "shake," if you catch my drift.  So I slipped them all fifties and crept backstage.

     Behind the curtain wasn't as glamorous as you might think.  A couple of janitors were smacking the hell out of a bag of sand, one guy was snorting a two foot line of cocaine, and to top it all, two dudes were banging behind some folding chairs (keep in mind we were at a dance-off).  And he sure as hell danced the pants off that guy.  Amidst the preshow-chaos I kept my cool, plotting their demise.  Would they be done in by my patented Russian Plitzer? Or would I just stab somebody with a screwdriver before the show?  I hadn't decided yet, but I was keeping my options open.

     I could shake it, but these were some tough customers.  Barrel Jack, the slimy lush from Brazil.  José No-way, the master of the ChiChi Man Hammer.  Juan Carlos, his name pretty much spells it out.  And a Freddie Mercury look-a-like, Barracuda Batson, he was the deadliest of all.  Tough customers indeed.

     The lights fired on and the audience roared.  It was show time, and the Page in the green vest was waving me on.  Holding that clipboard like some kind of Greek God.  Focus Donny, focus, you've got asses to kick and judges to dazzle.

     I began my routine and it was like magic.  I could feel their hearts flutter, and I knew my Hot Thighs would win the day.  Besides, my shorts were as high as a kite.  It was over before I knew it and the county lockup was the only place that performance could have ended.  They would have awarded me first place instead of calling police, but it was political.  Apparently "simulated masturbation" is not deemed appropriate subject matter for a Renaissance themed dance contest.  How the hell was I supposed to know?