Both my Girlfriend (Hi Cheri!) and my girlfriend (Hi Lois!) are moving soon.  Both are technically moving closer to where I live, but not by much.  The girlfriend is moving a bit north to a place right near her employment with the socialist bureaucracy that is apparently the evil masterminds behind public breastfeeding.  The Girlfriend is moving infinitesimally closer to me.  So instead of me having to travel 3 to 6 hours, depending on if I have a non-stop flight or not, to the nearest airport to her and than another hour or so of driving, just so I can walk up a flight of stairs to her apartment… I now get to skip the flight of stairs.

Whoop.  Eee.

Now of course I am going to be the awesome boyfriend that I always am and not lift one finger helping them to move.  It is not because I do not want to, because I really really do not want to, but it is because my work schedule is chaotic and non-traditional.  Plus, did I mention I really do not want to?  I will, after the chaos of actually moving all the boxes and furniture in has died down, gladly visit both of their new homes and help with hanging pictures or re-positioning knick-knacks or even, dare I say it, plug something into an outlet.  Oh sure, my Girlfriend will have to wait until October (an entire two months) before I will be there to obey her every direction in how to place something on her wall, but I will do it.

After all, I am an awesome boyfriend and it is the very least I could do.  Well… almost the very least I can do.

But the true tragedy of these moves was the tossing away of my Girlfriend’s thong underwear.  As most people do when they have to pack up their belongings to change residences, my Girlfriend has realized she has a lot of crap she does not need or want anymore.  As much as I tried to talk her out of it, she decided that she would never again don the flimsy, yet sexually beautiful, pieces of triangular fabric that would barely cover her love tunnel while flossing her ass crack.  The thongs, of which she had collected several thousand in her promiscuous youth as a lion tamer in the Yuri and Vitaly Circus, were tossed into the dumpster where some crack-whores, similar to some sisters and neighbors of her acquaintance, will eventually find them and rinse them off to be used in their… crack-whore-ary?  Crack-whorishness?  Crack-whoring?

Seriously, which is it?  I want to make sure to insult crack-whores using proper grammar.

In honor of this painful good-bye, I have written an ode to thongs which I would like to share with all of you.  Please be as respectful of this moment as people are at a sporting event during the National Anthem:  get out of your seat, remove your hat, and pretend to care about the fake patriotism being spouted from brainwashed masses who were simply randomly conceived and/or born in a particular location and somehow that makes said location the greatest location in the entire universe… while holding your beer.

Ode to Thongs

thongDamn Thong!  You make asses look fine
Simply by putting a line
Between those hot ass cheeks.

guythongDamn Thong!  You even make sag work
If that sort of thing’s her quirk
To stare at on a beach.

fat thongThong, you nicely fit big or small
Giving confidence to all
Making us be sex gods.

skinny thongThong, though you hid but a nip
Rarely did you tear or rip
Being pulled to the side.

deletedThong, you may be gone from her drawers
‘Ever gone from her back door
But I still have pictures.

 

Oh I am sure my Girlfriend and I will still frolic in the buff with the same zeal we always have… which is me drooling and begging until she finally says okay and then I work hard to make sure she has a “good time” so she can be convinced the next time I am drooling and begging.  And when she has finally had enough of my clumsy fiddling, she will suggest the sexual position she knows I cannot resist nor hold back on so she can finally get to sleep.  I know her tossing out her thongs does not change anything substantial in our sexual relationship.

But damn it all, they were as close to commando as I could get her to be.  Sigh.  For everything, turn turn turn, there is a season, and a time for every purpose under the stairway…. to heaven.

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