Friday, April 15, 2011

Pasta Prima Donna

A few years ago, my girlfriend and I were visiting my sister in Los Angeles. We decided to drive down to Venice Beach to walk along the boulevard and enjoy a nice quiet meal. To this day, I have yet to find a restaurant that can match the quality of the fish tacos I had that night. After we had enjoyed our meal, we walked back toward the lot where we had parked our car.

We approached a night club that had a red carpet covering the pavement in front and a pair of very intimidating door men stationed outside. A swarm of onlookers lined the velvet ropes that ran parallel along the red carpet. We overheard one couple ask another group if they knew when David and Victoria would be arriving. Even without hearing a last name; I knew they meant David and Victoria Beckham. As a soccer fan, I thought twice about walking past the scene and continuing on to our parking lot destination.

I convince my sister and girlfriend to wait a few minutes to see if “Becks” would make an appearance. As we stood there waiting, I heard the raised voices of two people in particular. They were standing amongst the crowd sharing nonsensical stories with one another. Each was your typical college-aged “Bro” from Venice Beach. They both had bleach blond hair, wore pre-ripped denim jeans and finished off their ensembles with a vintage t-shirt they most likely bought on Melrose Avenue for about $75.00 (the David Beckham uniform of 2007). They were attempting to one-up each other in the art of storytelling (a common LA occurrence). I knew by the time the Beckhams showed their beautiful faces, there would be at least one quality tale to take in. We stayed for a few minutes until my need to hear a good story or have a chance to see the Beckhams was overruled by my sister's need to get back to her apartment so she could do some school work.

As we were walking away, I did catch the opening line to what I could only assume was the winning story of their back-and-forth. One Bro said to the other, “There I was, by myself, covered in macaroni and cheese.” I turned to walk back toward them in order to soak up the details of the wonderful set of events that was sure to follow such a strong opening. I was cut off by an army of body guards and an assortment of door people. Why did they not want me to hear this story? Were the next few details going to unlock a Pandora's Box of heavily guarded secrets or verifiable conspiracies? Or was this the Beckham entourage making room for the royalty of soccer and Spice Girl infamy? Flashbulbs went off at the speed of light (what other speed could they be going?), the crowd swarmed the Beckhams, and I tried to locate the tale-tellers to ask them for the remaining details.

After a few minutes, the hustle and bustle died down, and the flashbulbs ceased their onslaught on my corneas. I combed the crowd for either of them, in hopes of getting those details my mind so desperately needed. I was unsuccessful in doing so. However, my imagination didn't bother waiting for those details before it began constructing a story of its own.

The two Bros seemed neither shy nor particularly bright; which led me to believe they could easily be duped into a indecent predicament without ever seeing it coming. Any pretty girl could mash her breasts together in such a way as to create a hypnotizing effect on a simple minded man. This girl would be especially pretty and her breasts would be especially mashed together. I pictured a redhead standing about 5'7” with long legs and a slender body. Bro #1 would be powerless to her every suggestion. He would find himself acting as her man-slave without ever being the wiser. Her every wish would be his command; from folding laundry and vacuuming the carpets to walking the dog and taking out the garbage.

Their relationship would be one-sided, and both parties were fine with that arrangement. She would get all the benefits, and he would get all the responsibilities. On occasion he would be provided with a full glimpse of her mammary mind control devices, but only as a reminder of why he was performing these tedious tasks. His mind was focused on the prospect of actually making physical contact with her naked skin. Her mind was constantly searching for the next chore that she would instruct him to complete.

After a while, she would grow tired of asking him to simply sweep the floors or dust the bookcases. She had to come up with more creative ways to keep him busy. At first, he would find himself ironing her bed sheets and mopping her driveway. All the while this Bro-machine was kept busy with thoughts of naked flesh dancing in his head.

She would find herself sitting on the porch, drinking a glass of freshly bro-squeezed lemonade, wondering what her next move would be. Maybe she should throw him a bone, and let him get a taste of the motivational tools he had been fantasizing about for the last three months. She too was feeling a little antsy for some physical contact. However, her idea of a night of passion differed greatly from his. She would begin her plans for such an occasion; just as soon as he finished shaving her dog (that is not a metaphor for sex, her Poodle “Mac” was truly in dire need of a trim).

She would send Bro #1 to the grocery store, so she would have the ingredients to cook her “dinner” that night. His mind was so focused on the prospects of the evening, he did not even question why he was picking up fifteen boxes of family-sized Kraft macaroni and cheese.

Upon his return, she would take the grocery bags, and ask him to wait on the porch while she prepared the food. She boiled gallon upon gallon of water to begin the process of creating the cornucopia of carbohydrates. The tiny noodles would dance among the heated bubbles as they went from a hard plastic material to the firm yet slippery al dente she desired for this occasion. They would be drained and rinsed one batch at a time, then set aside to wait their turn to be mixed with milk, butter and dehydrogenated cheese product. Bro #1 would sit patiently on the porch creating pictures of the night that was sure to change his life forever. But the change he was to get, was not the kind he was envisioning. Sweat beaded down her forehead as she whisked the cheese product and milk/butter mixture time after time, and batch after batch. Yet only she knew this would culminate with the ultimate in re-hydrogenation, degradation, and humiliation.

After hours of activity in the kitchen, Bro #1 would be summoned to the bedroom with a sultry utterance of, “Hey you, get in here!”

He would scurry toward the bedroom at breakneck speed. Upon entering, he would be blindfolded with a wool scarf (the same one from which he had recently finished picking the excess fuzz by using a pair her of fingernail clippers).

His anticipation grew, and so did Bro #3 (aka “Little Bro”). A warm sensation would overtake his body. He could not pick out what the substance was that was being slathered across his naked body, yet all the while he was fixated on the anticipation of what was to come next. He was instructed to remove his blindfold by a voice that seemed like it was coming from the other room. And when he did remove the optical obstruction, he was faced with only his reflection in her streak-free mirror. He turned to his right. No naked woman. He turned to his left, and then looked behind him. No woman, naked or otherwise. He called out her name. No response. He turned back to the mirror and thought to himself, “Here I am, by myself, covered in macaroni and cheese. Now what?”

Like a child with no other recourse but to flee, he would pull his pre-ripped jeans and drape his overpriced vintage t-shirt over his pasta-laden body. All the while, questioning the decisions that led him to this point. Not a word would be spoken of those fateful three months he spent as this manipulative woman's bro-slave. That is, until he found himself in a bout of one-upmanship with a fellow bro outside a night club in Venice Beach many months later. He couldn't be outdone or left without a story to solidify his place as Bro #1. Choking back the tears of humiliation, he would start by saying, “There I was, by myself, covered in macaroni and cheese.” Bro #2 would be frozen in anticipation for what was to come. That is, until the Beckhams arrived and ruined it for everyone (including me).

Well David, you got what was coming to you. The subsequent injuries to your ankle, knee and Achilles tendon were karma telling you something. Now you know what it was saying. Don't ever get in the way of a story that good ever again. Good luck next season though.

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