Ol' Dutch has commented before about how women tend to leave their things around when dating a man.
Now, I’ve considered this a long time and have decided it is so they can mark their territory so that if by chance another vixen comes into the nest she can see there is already a she-cat scratching at this pole.
Plus if they do it slowly and surreptitiously it starts to give an appearance of permanence so the unsuspecting man slowly gets conditioned to having such items around the castle.
Now Ol' Dutch fell for this hook line and sinker as Trixie began to set her hooks for his desirable-self early on in the dating game and small items like a toothbrush and lotion began to spend the night at my house.
The copious amounts of long, dark hair on every surface left little doubt as to a frequent female visitor but still, item by item, Trixie began to move her stuff into my abode.
For those of you still on the freeway of life without a woman, let me tell you about the defining moment for me living with this particular woman.
One day not too long after we co-mingled our lives, I had a long work session planned (aka “a nap” to the unlearned,) when I woke with a start and realized I was late for a meeting at church.
Rising quickly and diving through the shower I dressed quickly and arrived just in time for the prayer which is usually long enough to catch any stragglers who might be coming in 10 minutes late.
The meeting was fine and Ol' Dutch was able to share some of his tremendous wisdom but with each passing minute it became evident there was something amiss undercover. I became aware that I had on a pair of shorts performing their own wedgie on poor, unsuspecting me.
Try as I might by squirming, shifting positions, and even jumping to my feet with a quick “hallelujah,” I could not coax them back south and get relief on my tender real estate.
As luck would have it Ol' Dutch was asked to lead the closing prayer and as he stood to do so, those shorts climbed the old totem pole and proceeded to produce pain likened to human sacrificial rights of pagan origin.
As I prayed my voice shifted up an octave and sweat began to pour off my brow while the rest of the parishioners took this for a move of God on me and joined in with increasing fervor.
I prayed long and hard for deliverance from demons and all sorts of other confining forms of pain and finally in a fit of spastic irreverence said a quick “amen” and exited walking like a crippled duck to the men's room.
There poor Ol' Dutch was able to extricate himself from his outer garments and lo and behold found out that in the darkened bedroom and in his rush to get to the meeting had somehow gotten into a pair of Trixie's unmentionables instead of his cooling, man-frame boxers.
I quickly joined the Army of God and went Commando for the rest of the day but no one will ever forget the day Ol' Dutch prayed for deliverance from pain and suffering.
Now I have been in church all my life and have been asked many a time to lead the group in a song but this was the first time I actually led a congregation in a thong.