Do the Jackknife

I have lived in my new pad for 53 days now. I may or may not have cleaned my place at least once so far. I am having a cleaning service start this week. Unlike every woman I know, I will NOT clean up for the cleaning people. I have never understood why women do this. It’s like cutting the grass before the lawn boy shows up. Ridiculous.

I also don’t understand why women won’t walk three blocks in the chilly late night air past two perfectly good restaurant bars to cross a six lane road and go into the seedy DoubleTree hotel bar with three drunk guys and me, the only sober person in a five mile radius.

It was Tom’s birthday this weekend. He and a bunch of other people started celebrating early at a giant beer festival being held in our Truman Show Pleasantville Bubble of a neighborhood. The post festival party moved to the local restaurant and then for some reason all the women dropped liked flies on the way to the DoubleTree dive bar.

In addition to Tom, Jerry and Jeffery were the other two guys at this point. Jeffery is a nice guy, but the real entertainment comes from the other two chumps. First off, I love going out with them and introducing them to as many people as possible. “These are my friends Tom and Jerry,” just never gets old for me. A surprisingly large amount of people don’t see the humor in that in which case they fail the litmus test for getting to further enjoy the pleasure of our company.

For some reason Tom was polling us on our favorite sexual positions. My answer was “Yes.” Jerry answered, “Normal.” Tom thought this was hilarious but also wanted a more specific description. Jerry was too drunk to remember how to say “missionary” and none of us would help him. Finally a bar-fly woman sitting near us helped him out. I think we were being a little bit loud.

Of course we asked what her favorite position is and as she was contemplating between “Doggy” and “Jackknife,” the guy she was with returned from the bathroom. He didn’t take kindly to us talking about sex with his girl. I did not introduce him to Tom and Jerry.

I huddled the guys in close and said, “What the hell is Jackknife?” None of us knew. So we asked the waitress.

“Hey, when you have sex, do you like to do the Jackknife?” I shook my head and apologized on behalf of Tom and said, “He meant to ask you if you know what the Jackknife is, in terms of sex positions.”

She cocked her head and I did too. When in Rome. She corrected her head position and put her hand on her chin. I did the same. She put her other hand on her hip. So did I. Suddenly there was a twinkle in her eye (my eyes are always twinkling so I didn’t get to copy her) and she said, “Google it.”

So we did and all said, “Ohhhhhhhhhhh, yeah, sure. Done that. Just didn’t know it was called the Jackknife.” We collectively looked at the bar-fly woman and nodded while mouthing, “jackknife” with a little winkie wink. Her dude still seemed angry with us.

Just then, two more friends walked in. They ordered a round and scoffed at me and my Diet Coke. Tell you what, if you ever get scoffed at by a dude wearing his wife’s straw cowboy hat, an open flannel shirt over a big beer belly covered by a yellowish white undershirt, and a necklace made out of mardis gras beads and beer cans, then perhaps you have sunk to lower than low. But I’m fine with that.

We finished up and were excited to hear our friends had shown up in a golf cart. For some reason, lots of people own them in our neighborhood. The owner of this one had his loaded down with a tent and props from being a sponsor at the beer festival so there wasn’t much room on it but he said we could all climb aboard. We walked out the front lobby doors of the hotel and I was laughing because the morons had pulled up and parked right there in front where cars and shuttles drop off passengers. It reminded me of The Hangover when valet brought them a police car.

Four guys piled in front and me and another guy stood on the back bumper. We took a slight detour through Park Hill and found out it is possible to get one of those things to make sharp turns and end up on two wheels despite going only ten miles per hour.

And then I remembered why the women left us. They know we are idiots.