That Time Me and My Old Buddy Skeeter Ended Up in an Adult Sex Shop Together

[Lord Long Rod]

It were a shimmerin’ sultry summer afternoon in the middle of July here in the deep, deep south. Now usually, I would be out thar scouting fer the upcoming deer huntin’ season. Or maybe out doin’ a lil fishin’ fer channel cats in Deep Shit River. But on this here day I were stuck just a fartin’ round town with my old buddy Skeeter. See, my wife’s mother dun up n’ died on account of improper dildo usage, and they wuz having a memorial service at the house. My old lady, Eunice dun sed it would be disrespectful if’n I up and wint ta doin’ man thangs. So I have to stay round home.



Then my buddy, old Skeeter dropped by round 3ee’em. It were a completely uninspected visit. I dun got sick of the old in-law family with thar goddamned old blubberin’ an sech. I thot, “Hot damn!!!! A Reprieve!!!!”. I shot out the door and hit the road with old Skeeter in his El Camino he calls “Creampuff”. I sed, “let’s go tie one on, Skeet!!! I bout had it up the ass wit the old lady’s people”. Old Skeeter replied, “Sure, buddy. Where ya’ll want to go? The “Hairy Squatch” or “Phat Titties”? Both of them are local eestablishments that serve booze. I sed “Go to the closest one, PRONTO!!”



Well sir, about halfway to the “Hairy Squatch” the old Creampuff petered out. It jest stopped dead in the middle of nowhar. “Well, shit fire!! We dun did up and run outa gasleen”, sed Skeeter. I looked over at old Skeeter and dun did say, “Skeeter, you stupid sumbitch!! How does someone run outa gas?!? Do ya’ll look at the fuel gauge?” Old Skeeter told me that the gas gauge did not work. I asked him how did he know when it wuz time to put gas in the tank. He replied, “Well, when the old Creampuff gives out like it dun here, then I knowd it’s time to fill er up!”



I was irritated like a pair of nut sacks covered in deer ticks. It were much worse than it ought to be on account of I were getting the shakes due to the alcohol withdrawals. Hell, I ain’t had a decent shot of licker since 11:00 a.m. this morning. If’n sumthang don’t break soon I were gonna be seein’ purple munkey’s running up my laigs with knives in thar teeth! So we dun got outa the Creampuff and started humpin’ in westwardly, toward the Hairy Squatch.



After an hour and a half we dun did come up upon an curious establishment on the right side of the road. “What the fuck is that?”, I asked, pointing at the joint. Skeeter sed he didn’t rightly knowd. It turns out that neither us been out this a’way fer a good spell. I sed, “Well, hell, Skeet. Let’s go inside and check ‘er out. Maybe we can at least get us a cold beer in thar. So we headed toward the place.



The establishment itself looked a lil sketchy. It were a single story building made outa concrete blocks and painted all black. Thar weren’t no winders. Over the front door were a sign lit up in neon pink saying “age restricted”. I asked old Skeeter if’n he knowd what that meant. “Hell if I know”, he replied.



When we opened the door and went inside, I gots to tell ya’ll, it were sumthang like I ain’t never seen before, it were!! Neon lights everwhar!!! And shelves and shelves of all sorts of doo-dads. Then we heard a dude call to us, “Hey thar buddies!!! Ya’ll have a look around and make yerselves at home!” It was a friendly lookin’ old feller sittin’ behind the counter up front. He had a sort of Santy Claus look about him, with beard and all. He had sum kind of black latex body suit on. I figured he may be gittin’ reddy to go scuba diving er sum shit.



So we walked over to check out what were on the shelves. The first thang we came across were a big old container of plastic things. Thar was a tag on it that said “Ass Plugs”. Skeeter said, “What the fuck is an ‘ass plug’?” I cyphered on it fer a moment then it dawned on me. It tweren’t no ass plug. It wuz supposed to say “bass plug”!! This here were a fishing shop!!! Skeet asked if’n I wuz sure. I told him, “Don’t be a dumbass, Skeeter. Someone jest fucked up the spelling. They ain’t no sech thang as an “ass plug”, you stupid fucking redneck!”



I continued, “See, you throw this out thar and crank her in. It’s a bass lure.” Skeeter sed it don’t look like a bass lure, pointing out that there were no lip on it to make it dive. I sed “Well, hell, it probably don’t dive. You know, like a Rat-L-Trap. It jest rides under the surface. And you git to put yer own treble hooks on it too!! I bet you can buy them separately!! Skeeter agin questioned this. “I ain’t never bought no crankbait without hooks.” I looked at old Skeet in the eyes and then shook my hed. “You ignorant fucking hillbilly! These here are customizable crankbaits!! You set ‘em up like you like!”



We next moved on down the aisle. We came across a big bin full of something called “Dongs”. Well, I reached my hand in thar and pulled out the craziest thang I ever dun did see. It was a big rubber floppy thang about 12 inches long and big around as a beer can. I looked in the bin again. It were filled with these here damned thangs!!! And they wuz in all sorts of colors. Skeeter said, “Damn, them thangs sure look like …” Then I finished his sentence with “WORMS!!”



That’s right. They were plastic bass fishing worms!! But these here were HUGE! Clearly, these were meant fer trophy bass fishin! Old Skeeter took off his Red Man cap and was scratchin’ his head. Then he sed, “Damn. Are you SURE?!?” I replied, “Of course I am sure! What the fuck else could they be for? “



Skeeter then asked me, “Well, how do ya fish with them big motherfuckers? Do ya’ll use a Texas rig? A Carolina rig? Drop shot?” I replied, “You rig it however you want, dumbass!!! It am the size that matters!!! This here is a lunker lure!! After a few more minutes of marveling over these magnificent plastic bass fishing lures, we wondered into another aisle.



Thar we came upon a big old box full of something called “condoms”. Both Skeeter and I were perplexed. I asked the old codger up front what I were to do with these damned thangs. He yelled over to me “Ya put ‘em on your rod!” Skeet looked at me and asked “Rod covers? Like when you are storing yer gear over the winter?” I shrugged my shoulders. I unwrapped one of them, examined it, thunk on it fer a spell, and concluded that thar ain’t no way in hell it were gonna stretch over a 6’ Ugly Stick. Skeeter sed, “It looks like a balloon”. I examined it some more, then thunk on it some more. Then, it finally came to me.



“It’s a float! You hang yer hook and minnow under it. Then when a fish takes the bait, the float goes under, lettin’ ya’ll know you got a fish on!”, I sed. Old Skeeter grimaced a little at my explanation. I got to admit, I did not really knowd why one would use blow-up bobbers while fishin’ either. “This here is a real strange fishing shop”, sed Skeeter. I agreed. “This here aint’ like no bass pro shop I ever been in.” Then we looked around at sum of the other shit in the store.



Over in the corner was some goddamn contraption called a “Sybian”. A sign hanging over it invited people to sit on it and “try it out” right thar in the store. I figured it must be some kind of fancy, new-fangled “bicycle seat” you put on the front end of a bass boat fer tournament fishing.



I shook my head and said, “Come on Skeeter, let’s get outa here. This ain’t no kind of fishing shop for us.” Skeeter agreed. He asked, “Who shops fer fishin gear in a place like this”. I told him. “Yuppies”, I sed. You see, Old Skeet and I are meat fishermen. But this here shop is fer them thar high fillutin’ fishermen that ride around in them thar big fancy bass boats. I explained this to Skeeter. “You know, like Kevin Van Dam, Jimmy Houston, and Roland Martin. This here is high end shit. It’s way over our heds.” Skeeter agreed.



Well, sir, we finally made it to the Hairy Squatch round 6: pee-m. We had us a few beers, then some Jacks, ordered pizza to the bar, then got hauled off to jail with everbody else when the police busted the place on account of the meth lab in the back. We spent the next couple weeks in the lock up before it all got straightened out and they realized that we were just honest patrons and could leave. It were am case of being in duh wrong place at the rite time!! But on the positive side, by the time I got home all those gaddamned inlaws were gone!

 

[The Irish Ram]

God, I hope you aren't married.

 

[Lord Long Rod]

God, I hope you aren't married.

I am not looking to get hitched up again, woman, if you are rooting for some strange.

 

[Leo123]

Yer lucky you got yerseffs outta dat store....It was prolly queer bait.

 

[The Irish Ram]

I am not looking to get hitched up again, woman, if you are rooting for some strange.

More than satisfied with my husband's long rod. Thanks anyway...