An Ode to Billy Mays: A FWTC Tribute

By Tresckow

I sat down in my office with my traditional bowl of Frosted Flakes and fortified wine. What? Shut the hell up! Have you tried it? Besides, it was after noon. 12:03 PM is after noon.

Exactly like this. Except, the milk bottle was replaced by a bottle of Thunderbird.

It is my Sunday morning tradition; wake up, make myself a complete breakfast, and sit down in front of the computer reading the news.

OK. "News."

Somehow, accidentally, the Associated Press page opened a new tab. This was purely accidental, since I believe the AP to be a demonic institution that pushes their own agenda. And that agenda? Making it hard as hell to maneuver their ridiculously structured website. Seriously, you would expect the Associated Press' homepage to have an abundance of news stories. Instead, it's a ton of self serving crap about the AP. For people like me, I need it to be painfully obvious where the headline are. I don't have time to search or find the correct website.

See? Nice and idiot proof.

OK, ignore everything I've said until now. A national... no.. INTERNATIONAL tragedy has happened the morning of June 28, 2009. Once I read it, all I could do was stare blankly into space. You know it. You know exactly what I'm talking about. The one, the only, the MIGHTY Billy Mays has shuffled off this mortal coil. No one really knows how it happened. According to the news, nothing has been verified, except for a tenuous connection between a rough US Air landing and Mr. Mays being hit on the head with falling debris. But, screw the media. Mr. Mays tells us all on his Twitter page.

Strong, until the very end. And damning to US Air.

Our great leader has fallen. And even if the bad landing is proven not to have anything to do with Mr. Mays' untimely death, US Air is pretty much going to be known as the air carrier that took Billy Mays down. You fuckers!

We, at the FWTC, are in mourning. No longer will be know what products will remove the tarnish from a medieval sword. How will we be able to choose a cleaner that will whiten our whites? What are we supposed to do when looking for a grass product that will make us want to roll around on our front lawns in total ecstasy? Our world no longer make sense!


At 4:17, Mr. Mays brings sexy back. Damned if we're not convinced! We have six crates of this stuff in storage.

This is, pretty much, how we see Mr. Mays' funeral procession. But, without it being Lincoln and 1865.

Alright, the week of June 21, 2009 has been a bitch for B list, has been, and just plain batshit insane celebrities. But, as anyone who believes the "they always come in threes" theory can tell you, we've already sacrificed our three. Ed McMahon was old. Farah Fawcett was mercifully released from her struggle with cancer, and Michael Jackson... fuck it, he was a walking tool box of manchild-ness and, all but proven, pedophilia. Thriller is no more. That Michael Jackson died two decades ago. The one that died in LA last week was a pile of crazy that neither mentally or physically resembled our 80s pop star. He needed bucket loads of psychological help and to be locked behind closed doors for the safety of children everywhere. Get the fuck over it!

Picture 1: Music Icon.
Picture 2: HOLY SHIT!

Even now, shitty self important newspapers all over the country would give themselves gravel enemas just for the chance to write some vomit heaving one liners about Mr. Mays in their ever shrinking print media empire. Fact has nothing to do with a popular figure dying. Fuck no! The first thing they teach you in Media Bung Hole 101 is to take a serious topic (A father who died in his sleep, entertained millions, worked hard to provide for his family) and omit 99% of the details. Then, craft a completely infuriating joke headline from a pseudo captain of the press.

Like the LA Times and there sensitive headline of: But Wait! There's No More! Yeah. That's funny you fuckers. HAW HAW. I think I just wet myself. No, fuck sticks, you've essentially mocked the man's's death THE DAY HE DIED with your bullshit yuk yuks.

Asshats.

What's not to miss? The powerful, upbeat voice, the jovial personality, the mightiness of his magnificent beard. I'm sorry, Chuck Norris, we have to award Billy Mays the "Most Awesomingly Mighty Beard on the Planet" award; even if posthumously.

At least be happy with your decades long reign as champion.

This is the beard we shall forever praise.

His empire of direct sell television products was just the tip of the Orange Glo iceberg. Mr. Mays took it to the next level. He and Anthony Sullivan launched a show on the Discovery Channel called Pitchmen. Stay with me here. When I first heard of it, I thought it was some unholy America's Got Talent meets America's Next Top Model hybrid. However, I stumbled upon the show late one night recovering from... a cold.

+Ah-choo

It was awesome! Immediately my preconceived notions vanished not unlike shower tile mildew after being decimated by KABOOM. It was more than a shitty reality show. It showed the intricate behind the scenes workings of what we, as a nation, just think of as late night television filler. The show is like being smacked in the face with a fish (in a good way).


More goes into the Direct Response Marketing business than I initially realized. Sure, most of us figured all they really do is point a camera, press record, and film Mr. Mays shouting the product's praises. Wrong! Tons of hours are put into pre-production, filming, post-production..... the amount of time they have to spend wading through douche bag after douche bag is a gigantic shit storm in it's own right. Most of the "innovative" products being pitched are just plain 'ol retarded. I don't know if you've noticed, but this country is full of people nuttier than a gross of shithouse rats.

No offense meant to the rats of the world.

To their credit, Mr. Mays and Sully give it their all in ensuring that they beat the shit out of every possible angle to attempt to make a product successful. Even if it's goofier than originally thought.

Mr. Mays was a Renaissance man. His blue shirt and khakis will forever stand as a symbol of in your face pitching. In fact, FWTC is officially retiring the blue button up work shirt and khakis ensemble. No one can wear them. Ever! So help me God, if I see some son of a bitch out there trying to sling shitty products wearing the Billy Mays uniform....

What do we do now? Where do we go from here? My friends, I don't know. What kind of cruel world would take the Roman god of pitchmen and leave us with Vince Schlomi? It's not right! It's not fair!

We need to mourn. Only time will help. I don't think it's too outrageous to make leather bracelets with WWBMD etched on them. I just put in a nomination to the Vatican to canonize Mr. Mays. That's how it works, right?


The FWTC asks everyone to hold a moment of silence for Mr. Mays. Right now. Go on. Do it!

[Shhhhh. Silence]

Songs will be sung and stories told. No doubt, a shit ton of tee shirts and other novelties will be manufactured for a grief stricken and gullible public. Yea, I'll buy my fair share. What can I do? I'm powerless to resist collecting memorabilia of our fallen hero. From what I hear, poems about the Great and Powerful Billy Mays are being written as we speak. OK, that link leads to a Walt Whitman poem about the death of Lincoln. But, shit, it can mean two things! The similarities between Lincoln and Mr. Mays are staggering. Don't believe me? Shut up!

Oh, Pitchman! My Pitchman!

We will never be able to fill the void left by Mr. Mays. Surely when our species is long dead, our great monuments crumbling; the only record of our existence will be that of one Billy Mays. A visiting alien race will uncover archaeological evidence of Mr. Mays and his many miracles. They will be forced to conclude that Earth was ruled by a great, bearded warrior wielding the might of his arsenal of cleaning and fix-it products. It will start a revolution. A spiritual revival, if you will. Eventually, that alien race will adopt Mays-ism as their religion. Churches will be built and monuments dedicated to Mighty Putty will be carved out of stone. Entire church services will be dedicated to the book of Mighty Mendit. Can you see it?

A reading from book of Anthony Sullivan:
"Let not your laundry be dingy and yellow. Let not your bathrooms be smelly and stale. Thou shall embrace the teachings of the Mighty Billy Mays and thou shall benefit from his glory. Yey, as I walk through the valley of death, I shall fear no foot discomfort. For the protection of the divine Impact Gel will protect my feet."

The Word according to Sully. Thanks be to Billy Mays

Then, the Church will have to clean house once they discover a small sect of Schlomi-ists. Nobody expects the Billy Mays Inquisition!

Recant! Recant! Denounce Schlomi and embrace your TRUE pitchman!

We're still reeling from this sudden and stomach punching loss. The episode of Pitchmen on my DVR will never be deleted. As soon as the full season is available, I shall purchase it and place the commemorative box in a place of honor. I shall pay homage to it every morning and every night. There's a national holiday in this, somewhere. I'm just not sure where yet.

This just feels right.

And now, I will leave you to mourn in your own, solemn way. Rest assure that the world shares your pain, as you will see in this tribute video on YouTube set to "Dust in the Wind". Thank you Darkmatter28031. May the Mays be with you.

But wait... there's more, Mr. Mays. There will always be more.

Animated Honeys Drunk Guys want to Bonk: A FWTC Study

By Roode

I can hear you judging me now. How disturbing. A grown man who wants to bone cartoon characters. First off, you judgmental prick, it wouldn't be "boning." It would be banging. The difference is subtle, but it's there. Secondly, this is just all theory. Hot is hot. If the opportunity ever arose that either 1) you found yourself in cartoon form and able to knock water color boots with the animated hottie of your choice or 2) you were able to blur the real world/cartoon world boundary and do some of the inter dimensional nasty.

There are just some two dimensional girls on the tube a guy wouldn't kick out of bed for eating crackers. No, not the two dimensional girls you see on E! or other mindless television programming like Rock of Love . Venereal disease ridden yeast oozing frat whores can't touch any of these animated honeys.

Enough bacteria here to make one hell of a bio weapon.

So, who makes the cut? Let's take the old standbys off the table. No Jessica Rabbit or Betty Boop bullshit. It's the 21st century. Let's get current. While we're at it, might as well take all the anthropomorphic cartoon animals off the table too. Sorry, guys. If you want to fantasize about cartoon bestiality, that's another site. If you can get a boner for Gadget from Chip 'n Dale Rescue Rangers you need some professional help, you sick fuck.

Yes, Gadget. I would look appalled too, if I found out there were people out
there drawing their personal R rated fantasies of a cartoon mouse.

So, who are they? Who are the vibrant, computer animated vixens that drive real life biologically based guys nuts? Where are the cartoon divas that fill our sleep with dreams we could never admit to in public? Well, The Fuse Was Too Cold did a highly unscientific research survey to find out. I searched far and wide to get the answers. Literally tens of men participated in this research. By "research" I mean to say: drunk talk about stupid shit that happened to focus on what cartoon hottie you would bone. The research team consisted of five mostly employed men in their 30s. For the sake of this article we'll call them James, Tom, Phil, and Ryan. Being dedicated to the scientific method, I rounded out the group. So, when I said "tens of men" were interviewed, I was full of shit.

So, here they are, in no particular order.... fueled by perversion and alcohol.

1: Lois Griffin- Family Guy
Alcohol consumed during the research process: Beer

Hey, I'm not telling you anything you don't already know. Lois is a hot redhead with one hell of a computer animated body. She's into S&M, bondage, and the occasional cocaine binge. I'm not making this shit up. It's all in the series.

The research team had no problem coming to a consensus with Lois. She's that wild MILF that has no problems twirling around a stripper pole at night. Ryan was particularly adamant about her "boneability" factor. Hey, don't give me that look. It's a scientific term, just like bangtastic or humpalicious.

The only thing that took away from Lois' bangable factor was the fact that she has three kids. One way or another, we're thinking some elasticity was lost in the fun zone along the way.

We'll let you do the math.

We are sort of baffled how she ended up being married to a buffoon. Yes, there are chubby chasers out there. Are there functional retard chasers too? If there are, that opens up a lot of opportunities for some of the research team.


Oh, yea. If your first response to the "We are sort of baffled how she ended up being married to a buffoon" line from above was something like "I don't know, Roode. Let's ask your wife," I hope you catch gout you fucker.

2: The Princess of Hyrule/Zelda- Legend of Zelda
Alcohol consumed during the research process: Vodka

After deciding that beer was for chumps, we started downing vodka. We kicked around a few more animated cuties, before Phil brought up the old Legend of Zelda television series that was broadcasted every Friday on The Super Mario Bros. Super Show in the late 80s. Hmmmm, intriguing. All of us downed another shot of vodka and mulled it over.

[Yes, in this pic, Zelda is high beaming. Hey, I didn't draw it.]

Yes! Absolutely! Now it all came back to us. Zelda was hot! I don't know what the hell the animators were thinking when drawing this bangable cartoon Betty. Many a Third World tracer had a stiffy while diligently cranking out the animation cells for the weekly show. It almost made up for the shitty wages DIC was tossing to them.

It's cool if we pay you in magic beans, right?

In this cartoon, Zelda was more than some stuck up princess locked in a tower somewhere. That dumbass just sat there waiting for someone to rescue her. Shit no! This Zelda was proactive; going on adventures with Link because, she knew that elf dipshit would fuck it up alone.

As young boys journeying to manhood, having a shapely, active, and oh so nimble blond to watch on TV was friggin OK with us! It was our version of porn damn it! She had a better rack than most of the girls we knew in the real world at the time.

We know Link desperately wanted her hand wrapped around another handle..
That made even me feel dirty.

Link didn't even want to be there. His entire motivation for putting forth the effort to thwart Ganon was to get a kiss from Zelda. For our purposes, we decided "kiss" meant using his sword to penetrate Zelda's secret treasure.

OK. We know we're supposed to retrieve the Triforce of Courage.
But, um, we'd like to watch her sleep for a little longer..

3: The Black Cat- Spiderman animated series
Alcohol consumed during the research process: Whiskey

Anyone who watched the 1994- 1998 version of Spiderman, the Animated Series should be familiar with the character Felicia Hardy. Yes, she's another cute cartoon blond. But, her alter ego, the Black Cat gave all of us a new standard for female cartoon hotness. Not to mention another way we could defile the cartoon world with our sick and twisted male minds.

About ten minutes after we traded up from vodka to whiskey, James made a fantastic philosophical proclamation. The Black Cat was groin grabbingly hot. Shit, look at her. That outfit was made for form AND function. What better way to incapacitate the villain than by wearing a get- up that all but promised to suffer a wardrobe malfunction? We imagine that a few bad guys had problems standing up and just surrendered after a quick bathroom trip and a cigarette.

Nothing says "justice" like a skin tight black outfit that can barely contain your boobs.

It wasn't even just her look that got her on our scientifically compiled list. Her constant double entendres and sexual innuendos helped knock the ball out of the park. Take a look at this clip, for instance. After a while, you're not sure if she's prodding Spiderman to team up or get him to sling his web in her secret hideout.



A kid's show? How many super heroins wear costumes tight enough in the crotch to sport camel toe? Not enough, damn it! We have a feeling that more than a few young men wore out their VCRs pausing and slow motioning the tape when the Black Cat's scenes were up. Not that we would know anything about that.

4: Rogue- The X-Men Animated Series
Alcohol consumed during the research process: Bourbon

Somehow we went from single malt whiskey to cheap bourbon. But, with the switch, came a new entry into our scientific research. That's right, this is STILL scientific research. This is all in the name of science! Stop being judgmental!

In 1992, FOX blessed us with X-Men the Animated Series. This show was arguably the pioneer of animated comic book cartoons. Why? It did stay pretty faithful to the comic plot. Not that we cared. When the research team reviewed all the available data (drank), Tom postulated a hypothesis. This series was successful because Rogue was built like a brick shit house.

Alright, I feel like I'm losing you now. Let me take you back to 1995. This show was in its prime. Story lines were being crafted. The characters were being defined. What mattered even more than character development and story arcs? The fact that the cartoonist decided that Rogue should have the body of a porn star.

Nothing says mutant powers more than a 40D

We're beginning to think that every animator/cartoonist/artist has a hardwired need to draw female cartoon characters that will increase that chances of male viewer pitching a tent. That's what we call developing a loyal fan base.

That's right, baby. Give us angry.

Rogue was sassy, impervious to most types of harm, and could beat a guy to death with the Rock of Gibraltar. There is no part of that last sentence that isn't a turn on. Why do you think Gambit kept trying to get in those ridiculously tight spandex pants? Sure, Rogue could absorb his powers, potentially killing him. Quite frankly, it would be worth a life force draining or pelvis crushing to get some of that action.


5: Belle- Beauty and the Beast
Alcohol consumed during the research process: Rye

By this time, we were drinking rye straight from the bottle. Ryan may have vomited all over Tom's shoes. It's also a sure bet that someone was just in his boxers at this point. I'm just not sure which one of us it was. Amazingly, we were allowed to continue our important research.

No self respecting man has ever seen Beauty and the Beast the whole way through. Somewhere between the singing furniture and realizing the portly mantle clock butler was really the even portlier Major Charles Emmerson Winchester from M*A*S*H, we bailed.

Resemblance: Uncanny.

The only thing any of us remembered was Belle, the hot little peasant brunette that had a thing for hairy, tall men with anger management issues. It's probably because she heard somewhere in the village that the size of a man beast's tail is directly proportional to the size of his...forget it . This is crossing that whole bestiality line I drew in the sand earlier.

"Yes, Belle, the singing flatware all call me 'tripod'"

The research team came to the conclusion that Belle has one bonafide Disney dish. She's one of those girls that looks hot in a whatever she happened to throw on that day. Don't believe us? See for yourself and tell us that you wouldn't get a case of cartoon wood.

See? She's equally pants tightening in naughty school girl wear or boob highlighting formal attire.

6: Erin Esurance- Esurance commercials
Alcohol consumed during the research process: Grain Alcohol

Our research was almost complete. We were missing one final animated vixen, however. At this time only James and I remained conscious. The rest of the research team was exhausted after a full night of scientific investigation. Some may have mistaken their exhaustion for being passed out under the pool table. That's dedication damn it! That's mother fucking commitment!

When we became unable to function under our own power, we were hit with an epiphany. Erin Esurance was on television all the time. You couldn't watch a show without her strutting her fine self around. She's a double agent in a, you guessed it, skin tight body suit. We really couldn't ask for more. We really couldn't speak without slurring.

Because James and I were drunk to the point of being color blind, I made a quick call to Tresckow to verify Erin's cartoon boneability. His contribution of, "Oh, yeah, I'd get full coverage with her. In my PANTS!" substantiated our deduction. He then proceeded to launch a long soliloquy about the prospect of Ms. Esurance and Eliza Dushku in a three way with... To tell you the truth, I don't really remember how the call ended. I hurled my phone at the head of who I thought was Oprah Winfrey. Don't ask.

This mistress of insurance is athletic, flirtatious, and a closet dominatrix. She shoots out sexual inuendo after sexual innuendo. That's our kind of woman! Well, animated woman. Shit, we're past the point of semantics.

That's it you nimble little minx. Sell me that car insurance. I've been bad.

The cartoonist doesn't even bother attempting to hide Erin's blatant ani-sexy-mation. It's his intention to make us stop fast fowarding the DVR during the commercials. Nothing makes you want to buy car insurance like a tight bodied pink haired secret agent donned in what might as well be black body paint.

We're not really too sure why selling car insurance requires Erin to get in the cowgirl position.
Honestly, we're OK with it.

We would have no problem taking it out for Erin. Better yet, she can reach in and grab it. Just put her hand in there...

What? Reach in my glove compartment. That's where I keep my insurance card. What did you think I meant? You're a pervert. What did you think I was talking about? Sicko.

Esurance has even set up Erin's World on their web site. Essentially, you are in her apartment and can snoop around. You can watch her adventures on the flat screen, read her diary, go through her pics, and check out her Andy Warhol-ish art gallery. I know what you really want to know. No, there isn't an option to root around her underwear drawer. We tried. We tried for hours.

A quick spin around the internet revealed that our petite car insurance fox is much appreciated by her fans. Maybe disturbingly so. I'll let you Google for those pics. As much as we would love to fill her insurance application... we are only willing to take it so far. We're not total perverts.

Shit! We are.

Can we forget this article ever existed?

Now that I'm sober,
this all seems wrong, somehow.

Sincerely,
Roode

Motherly Mauling: Mental Anquish We All Enjoy

By Adel

Mothers. We love them. For the love of Pete, we created an entire holiday for them. Children buy them flowers, take them to dinner, and always say "hi, Mom" when they get their fifteen minutes of fame. For some reason, or another, we all seem to forget we have a dad when we make the winning touchdown during the Superbowl.

I'm sorry, fathers around the world. This is just how it is.

Some mothers are the kind that will bake cookies just because it's Wednesday. These moms will bake a cake when you visit. They are sweet, endearing people who have nothing but the best intentions and make the creamiest chocolate icing for a devil's food cake that has ever existed. I am talking a complete Roman-esq orgy for your taste buds. Icing so deliciously chocolaty and smooth, you'll have to change your underwear after.

In short, many mothers out there are amalgamations of television moms. I have seen a few of them, first hand. It's amazing.

Is it just me or does Mrs. Cunningham look hot in this photo? It can't be just me.

However, for every June Cleaver there is a Joan Crawford. Luckily, my mother isn't on either end of this motherly spectrum. She falls somewhere between Edina Monsoon and Peg Bundy. Oh, did I mention there is a dash of Gestapo interrogator in there? I should have mentioned that.

My mother is a hell of a lot prettier, but her methods are the same.

My mother is one of a kind, but there are many out there that share the desire to unleash a wave of mental and emotional torment when meeting their child's significant other for the first time. Sure, some moms are sweet as pie. But, others (like mine) love a chance to infiltrate, explore, then crush the poor bastard's psyche. Oh, they have varying degrees of subtlety, but the end game is always the same. Establish from the get go that she can reduce you to a quivering bowl of jelly any bloody time she wants.

Hmmm. Now which one did I come in with?

When it comes down to it, this sort of thing isn't so much to get acquainted as it is a lioness' hunt for prey. Poor, dumb, unassuming prey on the Serengeti of her daughter's love life.

Stage 1: The Hunt


My mother visited me from London. It was a wonderful treat for me. I do miss her very much. But, when she suggested that she get to know my boyfriend, Tom, better, I had pause. Let me restate that. I shat a brick. I know this woman. She wasn't looking for familiarity. She was looking to rip out his soul and eat it.

A public place. Yes! A public place is perfect for a sit down and chat. There are lots of people and the chances of anyone (Mother) making a scene are very low. OK, sure. Let's have dinner. The three of us. In public. Nice and public. Near the police, just in case.

Tom met us at the restaurant, looking rather charming in his wedding/funeral/graduation/Confirmation suit. He wanted to impress my mother. He had a snowball's chance in hell.Tom could have been wearing a tuxedo for all she cared. All she saw was prey. Sweet, delicious prey. He might as well have worn a vest made out of steaks while strolling through the lion paddock at the zoo.

Stage 2: The Set Up

We generated the typical dinner chit chat normally associated with a casual meal. But, it all went wrong. The rules changed. The situation spiraled out of control like Snoopy's Sopwith Camel after a run in with the Red Baron.


To test the waters, Mom threw out a, seemingly innocent question. "Do you and my daughter see much of each other." The snare was set. And the poor dumb animal stepped right into it.

"Oh, yes." Tom replied rather happily (I don't know why. I regularly order him about like a dog). "We see a lot of each other. I really enjoy spending the weekends together."

Tom! No! It's a set up. My eyes widened. My heart beat faster. What has he done?

Stage 3: The Pounce


Mom cracked an evil grin and delivered the first body blow. "Oh, Tom that's sweet. So you're staying overnight, then? Banging my only child like a drum in a Civil War march?"

This is me, apparently.

Tom looked visibly pained; the wind knocked right out of him. He looked at me for help, but I had none to give. He had to wade through this killing field alone. It was the only way.

"Um.. no, that's not what I meant!" Tom shakily replied, trying to regain his bearings. "I just look forward to spending time with her that's it. You know, for the company."

But there was no escape. There was no sweet release.

Stage 4: Immobilizing the Prey

All this over hor dourves.

Mom's eyes sparkled with the intentions of a KGB agent wielding a cable connected to a car battery. "I see, Tom. So, my daughter isn't attractive enough to sleep with, then?"

Ouch! This was a rabbit punch. He started to sweat. Poor Tom began to mindlessly fiddle with his silverware, desperately searching for the right answer. But, instead of running away screaming, he ventured further into the tar pit. "No, that's not what I meant. She's beautiful. She is definitely attractive enough to sleep with. I mean... it's... um..."

"So, you're just in it for the shagging? To get in her pants? To do a little bit of the mattress mambo?" Ever see a lion toying with its kill on one of those nature channels? This was worse.

I think he stopped breathing for a full minute.

Stage 5: The Kill

Mom kept him teetering on the edge of surrealism. She would eye him up from time to time during the meal, just to make sure he was as uncomfortable as possible. He was a wounded gazelle. There was no hope of running away. The lioness was relentless.

Over dessert, Tom figured he would go a different route with the conversation and compliment my mother. Don't get me wrong, my mother's ego must be feed regularly. But, this situation was very different. She wasn't interested in flattery. Her fangs were on her prey's jugular with a gentle, yet firm pressure. But, like all nature shows, the gazelle must die and the lioness must feed.

Mustering all the confidence he had left, Tom slapped a smile on his face and randomly threw out a: "I can definitely see where your daughter gets her looks. You look like you could be her sister," compliment. It was one of the finest accolades a mother could get. Alas, it just fed the machine.

"Why, thank you Tom. You're very sweet. So, you think I'm pretty?"



He looked at me. I stared back, trying to warn him with my mind. The lioness was about to tear out her prey's throat. Make it quick. Make it quick! I smiled and said something about how the women in my family have a knack for sheer British hotness. It wasn't enough to save him though.

"Absolutely." Tom said, with a renewed confidence. "You're a very beautiful woman."

Mom smiled, giving him a false sense of security. "So, Tom, how long have you been checking me out? As soon as you came in? Or did you start looking me over sometime during the entree? Imaging a little mother- daughter action? A Tom sandwich with two slices of English bread."

Mmmmmhmmmmm. That's good prey.

The night ended as nights do. My mother viewed the senseless violation of Tom's mind as the best way to get to know him. It wasn't only recreational. It was educational. The only way to see a man's true self is to systematically break him down and see what he does with the pieces. All in all, he proved worthy. My mother was pleased with this learning experience.

Tom, on the other hand..


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When not taking forever to write for The Fuse Was Too Cold, Adel enjoys visiting her significant other in the mental hospital. Especially on pudding day.

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