He had bed-head, tight jeans, a McGriddle

He had bed-head, tight jeans, a McGriddle gut, and an iphone. He ordered a Venti Mocha Latte and paid with a "gift card." His belt had studs in it. A knotted handkerchief clung to

the top of his head to hide his mane clumped with the remains of last night's gel and hairspray. He still could not remember where he had left his car or the name of the girl. She

had called him Simba and that had been enough to get his roar in. All he could remember was that the long key or the button on it that said "hold" would let her out of the trunk.

Too bad he accidentally dropped it in the Port-A-Potty on the last day of the BeerFest. He had a tough decision: save the girl by fetching the keys or more beer before last call.

He chose love. Ten minutes and one electric blue arm later, she was reunited with her keys, and his neck bore a lipstick kiss of gratitude. In fact, she asked him to join her in a

congress of primal bliss in bright, electric blue, Blue Man Group fashion. No talking, but lots of lights, loud music, and PVC piping were part of their lovemaking.

Yet the Funke's rekindled love life was destined for failure. One night, in the midst of a silent, but very blue lovemaking session, the door creaked open.

The door of JackobFunke's soul. He realized how long he had been without the touch of God. His treasonous lovemaking with his wife kept him from the rapt

attention of this hooded creature now before him. "It's not time?" he asked, not wanting to know. "No," the thing murmured. "Not yet. First,

we have to sort out the 7-layer dip". The hooded creature sighed. It was so great having things back to normal. "Wait up, Spanky!"