A Dish From The Word Wench

    (a.k.a. our fabo contributing editor from the land of cacti and well toned pool boys)



    Helloooo my Hussy tribe, darlings... long time no contact (I mean, some of you may have had contact with each other, or with space aliens for all I know, and I've had contact with the pool boy and no you are NOT going to get any more details.. sheesh... What I MEAN is, it's been a while since your ~ and my ~ FAVE Brazen Hussy correspondent, namely me, checked in with a report for Hussiedom. But I'm here now so stop that collective whining...)

    Anyhoo, where does the time go? Your loyal and daring Tucson correspondent has been way too busy with tangentially Hussiesque pursuits (okay, okay, some were horizontal, but you knew that already didn't you?) of late, but as the saying goes, "I'm baaaack."

    Actually, I'm rarely on my back, I'm prefer to be in the thick of things and astride at least a diversion or two (I believe I already mentioned said pool boy a while back.. but I digress).

    I'm talking passionate pursuits here... such as classic movies and baseball. In stressful times we hearken back to activities that bring us comfort. In the great green pastoral expanse of the outfield, boys will distinguish themselves and men will come home. Now in what other sport can one wax so eloquently and suggestively! Besides, don't baseball uniforms just make cute little guy butts even look more adorable! But I digress again..

    As I was saying, sort of, the recent World Series makes one want to invent time travel in order to visit the bucolic pre-war days of baseball and the glory days of Hollywood. In this unexpected wartime, we have all rediscovered traditional values centered on home, hearth, the great American past time of baseball (sigh.. those adorable butts again just passed through my reverie) and, well, pool boys (especially when I have mine wear that red, white and blue Speedo).

    And for this little ol' hussy that has included taking in a classic Mae West film, "I'm No Angel" and reveling in the joys of the World Series. The parallels are remarkable. Game 6 exemplified Tira's (Mae West's character) admonishment to "Take all you can get and give as little as possible." Oh, yeah. Bring it home 15 times, baby!

    As Miss West said, "When I'm good, I'm very, very good, but when I'm bad. I'm better." And I have to admit that the same holds true for the World Series... both the Yankees and the Diamondbacks performed in a, shall we say, "variable" fashion. I have to admit that although "better" playing might have brought the series to a climax sooner, the build up and heightened excitement of having to wait for Game Seven only intensified the pleasure of what was to be a fantastic game. And, I think I mentioned this already, but did you notice how CUTE those players' rear ends looked in those uniforms! Hmmm .. and did I mention that player I met the other weekend really like me ~ or was that a baseball in his pocket?

    Speaking of baseball ~ and lust, actually ~ although I attempt to be an impartial observer, it is difficult. Craig Counsell is just so cute he makes you want to takes him all the way home and well, if the truth be known, any of the Diamondbacks could easily get well beyond first base... just look at their Game Six performance. And all this on top of, be still my heart, the fact that diamonds are a girl's best friend... not to mention this girl wouldn't mind getting real friendly, if you get my drift, with the Diamondbacks.

    Then when someone named Randy Johnson a.k.a the Big Unit (I am NOT making this up and no he is NOT a porno star) is playing in a sport that allows players with balls to take the mound, how could any red blooded American Hussy not heave a huge tremulous sigh.

    The World Series was such good wholesome therapy, too, darlings... and an opportunity for cunning linguists everywhere to avail themselves of the tools of the trade, namely puns (which I just managed to sneak in and if you didn't catch it, well, maybe I was being a bit phallacious .. )

    How could smiles not cross the faces of anyone and everyone reading a T-shirt on a loyal Diamondback fan that screamed: "It'll take more than nine Yanks to beat our Johnson." I saw this with my own two Lancome lashed and very observant eyes at game two. Oh, of course I was there in person, darling! What hussy worth her margarita salt doesn't have at least one sugar daddy that can't resist a sweet breathy utterance of "take me out to the ball game..."

    Oh, and I just have to share this fact... did you know that the programs actually have printed instructions on how to score? I kid you not, but I digress... and just one more thing... Speaking of margarita salt, the margaritas are a much better deal than brewskies at BOB... (that's Bank One Ballpark) for all you Easterners... and they are delivered by the cutest male wait staff... all potential pool boys, everyone of them.... oops... but I intended to tell you about the B-52-ish beehived hussy.

    Here's the scoop: Had I been in charge of security (and believe me... I know my way around the world of surveillance... my divorce attorney and PI do wonders with a surveillance camera and have taught me muchisimos para el mundo de espionage), I would have searched her immediately!! (After all I am bi ­ LINGUAL, what did you think I meant.. sheesh).

    Let me tell you, her turquoise blue 'do brought visions of Debbie Harry as Velma Von Tussle in John Water's nearly mainstream flick, Hairspray , and we all know what Debbie had stashed in that beehive now don't we?

    Actually the very tall, dark and hunka hunka police officer who was assessing all persons entering the parking garage next to BOB and asked if we were carrying any hand guns or small nuclear devices (I am NOT making this up.. what did he expect a terrorist to say? Oh, well.. yeah.. sheesh. You CAUGHT me! But it is only a teensy weensy little nuclear device!). He explained that they were only strip searching Yankee fans. Hardly seems fair. I volunteered to help strip search the actual Yankees but.. sigh... I couldn't convince the cop it was an important Homeland Defense strategy (who can blame this red blooded American girl for wanting to see what that team was packing, n'est ce pas?)

    But we can't dwell on the problematic these days, now can we? In fact, I whole heartedly endorse the Mae West line from "I'm No Angel" as a summary of baseball, the universe and everything: "It's not the men in your life, it's the life in your men." And my, oh my, this year's Series players had a great deal of life in 'em.

    So get out there and do your patriotic duty today and always... (sure, the Series is over but you can go out and rent "Miracle at Morgan's Creek", a great Preston Sturges film that will keep you in the appropriate patriotic spirit watching Trudy Kockenlocker, a small-town girl with a soft spot for a man in uniform, show us how to give her all several times to a couple of guys, for her country).

    And don't forget... as the programs say, "Keeping score will add to your enjoyment of the game." So go score, keep score, get those bases loaded and keep on keeping on, darlings. Say WHAAAT? Say, go out there and do something so brazen an entire stadium full of folks gasps,

    "I'd do anything to score a home run with that hussy!"







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