The Outie Show

I wasn't going to post today. I didn't feel like even turning on the dang computer. I just wanted to stay in bed with my newspapers. The football game's not till tomorrow, and in three short weeks I've forgotten what it's like not to have to spend my Sunday with one eye on the clock, trying to decide if it's time yet to start drinking beer.

But I have to tell you all what happened (even though most of you probably won't read this until tomorrow, I might just forget by then. A steel sieve, this mind of mine, a steeeeel sieve.)

So after the outies were finished drinking beer and scratching themselves and looking at the truck, they trooped inside to drink beer and scratch themselves some more. They do this. We don't mind. We go through two or three 36-packs of Budweiser a week entertaining outies, plus a twelve or so of Heineken for George (my real beer is hidden in a different fridge), but these outies are good to us. George drops everything and comes over to fix the truck for short money and wholesale parts whenever we need him -- I can sure as hell spend twelve dollars on a twelve-pack once in a while.

George is a mechanic by trade, and by calling, but not at a garage. He works in a -- well, where I grew up we always called it the Town Barn. Where they keep the snowplows and, I don't know, sidewalk sweepers and other assorted motor-driven things that belong to the town. He fixes these, along with cop cars and fire trucks, probably garbage trucks too, plus any other engine you slap down in front of him. We've brought him chain saws and weed whackers, lawn mowers and rototillers, those-things-you-use-to-jack-up-the-house, power drills, spin-sanders -- you name it, George can fix it. He even fixed the record player, so I can still have secret frug parties when Johnny goes out of town.

Anyway, while the boys were in the living room talking about scratching themselves, I ducked off to watch a little Dirty Boy in the master bedroom. A little while later, Johnny called for me. "Hey Horse! Is it okay if George uses your computer for a second?"

Of course it is. George can use anything he wants. It would be okay if George wanted to use my toothbrush, though I'd understand if he didn't want to. Plus he knows how to turn the computer on and everything, so I don't even have to get up to accomodate him. After about half an hour, though, I get curious and wander in. This is what I see -- and I didn't take a picture, so you'll have to use your imaginations (you remember how this works: kind of like reading a book).

George is black, handsome, and not big but very fit, in a twelve-years-in-the-Army kind of way. He's seated at the computer showing John B. how to download music. John B., who rides a Harley and fills a doorway, is standing bent over with his hands on his knees just so he can read what's on the screen. Dublin Johnny -- five foot three ("and a half!") -- is slagging on their song choices from his perch on a guitar-stool behind them. And Andy, an overgrown Alfred E. Newman with a beer belly and a sort of cave where his ass is supposed to be, is mostly passed out in the corner, but he rouses himself occasionally to make some drunken comment that has nothing whatsoever to do with anything that's going on. All this in a room that measures 10'x12', and that already holds a day bed, a desk, a steamer trunk, a dresser and a fridge.

So I squish myself next to Andy -- who, in a drunken reflex, tries to grab my ass -- and I settle in to watch this sitcom spontaneously unfolding in my office.

Suddenly, out of the blue, George turns to me and says "Hey, Erin, what's the story with Mike Rowe?"

What? How did you know about my love for Dirty Boy? How did you know what I was doing in my bedroom? Go back to being sitcom outies, that was funny, this is just embarrassing!

But the thing is, George doesn't even sound as if he's teasing. He seems to be asking me a serious question. And I really don't know how to answer. Am I actually going to explain, in front of four grown men -- one of whom is mostly unconscious, but another of whom is my husband, so between the two of them they count as at least one and a half, so -- am I actually going to explain to three and a half grown men exactly why the Dirty Boy makes my virgin teeth sweat?

Apparently I've taken too long to answer, and apparently my confusion is showing, because George minimizes the screen he's working on and there, for all and sundry to clap eyes on, is my computer wallpaper (which, at separate times and unbeknownst to one another, Johnny and Andy have both told me looks like Ernest Goes To Camp):

Oh. Yeah. You turned my computer on without me. Whoops.

The point turns out to be, however, that George loves Dirty Boy almost as much as I do (though he does insist on calling him Mike Rowe) -- only in a completely manly and heterosexual kind of way. All the boys down at Town Barn do, apparently, and they give him hella respect. George talked about him reverentially, almost, and we traded moments from our favorite episodes. It was fun. I've never talked about the show before. Well, not much. To anyone but Charlie. Who's an innie, despite her name. And who loves me very much. But who has to be getting a little sick of listening to me drool.

So we chatted for a little while, me and George, about Mike Rowe and his Dirty Show. And then Andy, from the day bed behind me, growled "You just want to get in his pants!"

Everybody told him to shut the fuck up, George ashed his cigarette on him, which led John B. to complain about all the second-hand smoke he was breathing in this tiny room, so Johnny farted on him -- and I went back to being a member of the studio audience again.

The Outie Show has been brought to you tonight by Marlboro and Budweiser, with special consideration from Heineken and Newports. No actual outies were harmed in the making of this episode. The actor playing Andy slept over at the AssVac, because Friends Don't Let Friends Drive Home When They're Too Drunk To Remember Not To Grab Their Friend's Wife's Ass.