And I say, Katie, that's just a gal-darn shame, because you know what? My ass ALWAYS looks good. And I do mean always. Go to sleep, wake up, roll over, still looks good. Cover my eyes like you'd do playing peek-a-boo with an infant and say "Oh no, where's DC's ass? Where's DC's ass" then pop out and say "there it is!" and it still looks good. Even in death, I imagine I might still have dumps like a truck. This is just one good-lookin' ass.
The problem is, it doesn't always look good on me.
I'll be driving around town, when I'll see it walking down the street, a couple of superfine ladies on each arm...well, cheek...looking so nice that for a second I'm too busy admiring it to realize that it's mine, and that THAT'S why the bench seat in the truck is so harsh on me today.
I'll walk into my room and wonder when I got such swanky bachelor decor, only to realize that my ass has completely redecorated on one of its out-of-body sojourns. How do I know this? Because my room is full of hipsters in denim jackets two sizes too small for them, waify Russian models, and trendy techno musicians with names like Orbit and Penumbra and DJ Nunkicker. And at the center of it all, there's my ass, looking just comfy as hell in a bean bag chair, talking to some architecht or performance artist.
Can I do somethin' for you, man?
"Uhmm-- can I have my wallet? I was gonna go buy some gum."
Yea, that's cool. Sergei! Hand this man his wallet.
Sergei the architect reaches into one of the pockets in trendy wrinkled jeans I'd never buy my ass, and withdraws my wallet, which is looking worse for wear.
Oh, snap, hey, I forgot, I sorta spilled martini on it last night. Things got a little wild down at the lounge, y'understand. Hope you don't mind.
"No, hey, it's cool. So, see you tonight, I guess?"
But he's already gone back to discussing The Stooges with Sergei and I leave, only to hear, over my shoulder Hey everybody, who's down for some naked hot-tubbing? followed by what can only be the trademark whoops and hollers of a bunch of hip artists and models who've just been entreated to engage in wet-n'-wild hot tub shenanigans by some guy's disembodied ass. And I die, a little.
Then it'll be the middle of the night and I'll be sleeping, assless, as is becoming more and more common, and my phone will ring. I'll wake up, still assless, and answer it.
Hey man it's your ass.
"Yea...Jesus, what time is it."
Hey yea I don't really know but I'm kinda in a bad part of town and I don't really got a ride home so you think you could, uh, you know, maybe swing by and get me?
And I'll sigh and say yes in a tone that's supposed to come off as scolding but I think it just comes out more desperate. And then I'll get into the truck, and drive down to wherever his reckless partying has taken him this time, and he'll climb in like nothing happened. And I'll half-heartedly chastise him and I don't think he's even listening. What I really want to ask is if maybe I could sit on him and things could be the way they were, if only for a second. Before bed he'll utter some boilerplate about how he's going to change this time, really, and I don't believe it, but I want to.
Because seriously. That is one fine-looking ass.