Sometimes you can't ignore the whims of the Fates.
Last night I'm standing on the street talking to a friend when suddenly my phone rings. I pick it up – Cara mia! – it's an enamorada. I slam the phone to my ear, potentially busting a drum, but for naught – the line is dead. She's one-belled me, or maybe dialed by accident and hung up in embarrassment. Still, it's got me walking down the block, away from the noise.
Then what to my wondering eyes should appear, but three craven sluts, all quite drunk, in good cheer.
“Our pardon, good sir,” asks a comely young lass, “but mayhaps would you photograph my sweet ass?”
Of course that's not true at all. No, she just shouted, “Hey! Would you take pictures of our asses?”
Um … yes. Yes I will.
So there on the sidewalk by the liquor store, in which their blissfully unaware boytoys bought booze, three girls dropped their pants and basically mooned me. Three times. The short one kept falling between the gutter and a pickup truck; the brunette tried to help her up. The taller blonder one kept looking at my handiwork on her digital camera and demanding that I take more pictures. “You're not getting enough ass!” she shouted repeatedly.
Tell me something I don't know.