The Night we Invented the GM Margarita

It was October of 1962. The place was Southeastern Wyoming. I was Pad Chief at missile site 13, located 40 miles North of Warren AFB which was situated on the outskirts of Cheyenne. The call came in around noon: Defcom 1. Full Alert!
We were all as skittish as cats. World War 3 was about to begin. In the truck as we headed for the secure bunkers to wait for armageddon, the crew began to talk about the things they would miss after global thermonuclear war.

It suddenly occurred to me that at age 19,  I might die a virgin. I had never been laid. The prospect of dying without ever knowing the pleasure that the other guys bragged about, was more disturbing to me than the prospect of a world on fire with everyone turned into steak tips.

To make a long story short, the war was won by about 10:30pm when the Ruskies blinked. No shots were fired, no missiles launched, no bombs exploded. Their ships did not confront the blockade and scuttled back to port with their rudders between their legs. We won. And I might yet know a woman before I died.

After the war was over, a bunch of us went back to town and stopped in at the Mayflower bar. We were off duty but still in uniform. We picked our usual table in the darkest corner away from the band. A plump, dark haired angel came out of the shadows and sat down next to me. Her skin was smooth and the color of ice tea. She had thick red lips that smiled at me with a glad-to-see-you honesty that turned my legs to rubber. She wore a low-cut maroon dress that struggled to contain a lusty pair of boobs.

I was drinking Grand Marnier on the rocks, my favorite relaxer. She ordered a Margarita with Jose Cuervo Gold. When the drink came, she took a big swig and then leaned forward, showing her ample bosoms, to whisper something to me but I intercepted the talking with a kiss. Our lips fused and her hot probing tongue was in my mouth. I could taste the Tequila and the salt. We tongue-wrestled for a minute before coming up for air. She looked at me with big inviting eyes and took a sip of my Grand Marnier.

"MMMMM," she closed her eyes and smiled. "Go ahead and drink some of mine. But don't swallow."
I did as she asked. She took another full drink from my glass. Then we were locked again in a wet embrace. The tastes melded in our open mouths, spilling onto our chins and necks. Rivulets of the liquid streamed into the cleft between her breasts. I chased them down with my hungry tongue. She was undoing my pants and we copulated right there on the table while the band played "Lonesome Cowboy."

It only took 30 seconds (She wasn't wearing underwear) to strip me of my virginity. She asked for $20. I only had $15, which she took, and then she was gone, leaving behind an empty glass and the damp scent of wet fur.

Afterwards, my buddies spoke often about the night the future DFM (they called me Mad Dog Eddie back then) got his first piece of ass. I never did get her name, but I had a long-term infection as a remembrance of the night we won World War 3 and the night we invented the GM Margarita.

These days, I just mix it in an old fashioned glass. Chilled. Not too much ice.

-

Not Shoplifting

Yesterday I stopped in at the local pharmacy to refill my Lithium and Oxycontin prescriptions. On the way out, a display of small notebooks in the office supplies section caught my eye. As a writer, I am, of course, always having brilliant thoughts. Often I have nothing handy upon which to write these gems of wit and wisdom. Thus, priceless moments of erudite observation and pansophy are relegated to disparate scraps of paper, backs of napkins, or even junk mail envelopes. Invariably, much of this agglomeration ends-up collected in dusty desk drawers, silent shoeboxes or unconsciously tossed out as trash.

Being organized may be one of the seven habits of highly successful people, but it is not one of my attributes. I am a habitual “To-Do” list maker, but unfortunately the list often becomes misplaced, or I forget to look at the list. My wife is also a To-Do list generator, and I often find yellow sticky notes on the refrigerator door or the bathroom mirror that say simply “Look at your To-Do list!” It’s not that I am absent minded, I just get distracted sometimes - especially if I am not dutiful about the meds.

So there I was at the pharmacy, looking at notebooks, thinking that if I started carrying a notebook around in my shirt pocket I would always have something to write on. I have attained the age where all my shirts – even the Tee & Polo shirts are ordered with pockets – so I have somewhere to put my reading glasses.

There were several choices: Top hinged like a stenographer’s notebook and side hinged like a regular book. I tested a few different sizes and types by seeing if they fit into my pocket.

I was approached by a pock-faced young man who I recognized as a store employee. He wore a name tag that identified him as Jerry. On past visits, I had noticed that he was always following customers around like a vulture, peering over the plinths to make sure that no one shoplifted the toothpaste, I guess. He addressed me in an un-necessarily stentorian voice.

“Ok pops, don’t make a move. We got you.” I could feel what seemed like a ball point pen with the cap on sticking into my back pretending to be a weapon. The kid must have thought I was a rube.

“Look kid, you’ve got two seconds to get that pen out of my back. I wasn’t trying to steal anything. I was just…” He interrupted my explanation (strike two, I thought.)

“Yeah, pops, I know exactly what you’re try’na pull! You geezers think you can get away with murder – you come in here – shoplifting and then when you get caught, you whine ‘The new meds made me do it!’ Well, not this time, chief. You’re going to the slammer.”

Turning to face him, I asked “Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic… Jerry?”, as I drew my Walther .38 from the underarm holster and pressed the pistol into his chest directly under his nametag and very close to the heart.

He had a startled look of surprise and fear which he tried to mask with a grin. It made him look silly and meaningless. “Come on, pops, you wouldn’t shoot me over a 79 cent notebook. That’s probably not even a real gun.” Strike three. I pulled the trigger.

As he lay on the linoleum floor in a spreading pool of blood, I hoped that the last words he heard on this earth were, “And, don’t call me ‘pops’.” I stepped over him and took my notebook to the cashier counter. She gave me a nice smile and asked if I had found what I was looking for.

“Yes, thank you. Sorry for the little mess over there. I was just checking to see if the notebook fit in my shirt pocket. He was very rude. How much is this one?”

The cashier scanned the bar code. That is 79 cents plus tax, sir. No problem about Jerry – he was a jerk anyway. Thank you. Have a nice day.”

As I emerged from the pharmacy to get in my car, the sun was warm and bright. The sky was clear and blue. A light wind blew from the south. I sat in the car and popped a few Oxy’s, waited a few minutes for the headache to recede and then headed for the nearest bar.

Non News

Did someone fart? Or, was that another North Korean "nuclear" weapon test?

I am unimpressed. The US government seems to be inadequately prepared - once again - for the goings-on within the axis of evil. President Bush has sternly issued warnings about how "unacceptable" the situation was and is. Now, what should we do?
I say, "Why do anything?"

Because this is a Monty Python movie, friends. This is the "Quest for the Holy Grail." Kim is the French Taunter and Bush is Arthur the Crusader. There are no horses; the sounds of horses hooves are made by people clapping coconuts together.
There are no WMD's. Kim has had his best scientists strap together 10,000 M-80's and blow them off in a cave.

We are safe. The Asians can take care of this "threat." Let's get back to the important stuff like finding out who knew what and when did they know it.