The pinnacle of masculinity. There has never

His scent is 2 parts dandy, 1 part Jack Daniel's. He broad-chestedly plays with his knuckle hair as I watch from outside the window. My breath fogs the glass. I just... I love men.

He flexes his bicep, distorting the face on his Judge Judy tattoo. My tongue pokes between my lips tasting the testosterone rolling off his body. It touches the frozen pane & stic

ks. He comes up behind me. "What are you looking at?" I of course can't answer. He misunderstands & abruptly whips me around to face him. The tip of my frozen tongue is hanging

on the ice cream maker like a piece of sushi. "It'th on the tip oth my tongue." I say. He looks at me suspiciously. "How'd you like to taste a knuckle sandwich, Bud?

"Just fine." the other me responds. "Preferably the spicy kind. Habanero, or at least Jalapeno seasoned. My uncle used to make these before he lost his tongue in the disaster."

Said Ralph Waldo Emerson. The Concord Sage was a let down. I responded to this let down by wishing to be drunk with an intense ferocity, but Emerson kept on talking. I yawned in

tomatoish now that Anna Rusian Tomato and her brother Black were Emerson's favourite heirloom variety. Being a poet, he loved tomatoes and wrote them love letters in Tomato script.

In truth he hated that he had to love tomatoes simply because he was a poet. He didn't get an option to not like them for real or not. He was poet and that meant he liked tomatoes.

But it all worked out in the end He kept all of the tomatoes in the freezer, bushels and bushels of tomatoes, and when the Candy Colored Clown came to town, he tossed them at him!