Huz Yo Bag Dadi?
Only moments before, he had been looking out his November wardrobe…he’d counted ten thongs in his underwear drawer…eleven with the OCT pair that had never left his ass for well-nigh 27 days.
Something wasn’t adding up.
True, there had been that crazy camel-tipping party last Thanksgiving, yet he’d been careful to retrieve all his belongings from the young goatherd boy’s tent before daybreak that next morning. Might the lad have snagged his knickers as a souvenir? Nah, too groaty, even by desert standards.
He recalled Al Qaeda’s panty-raid in April. But as always, they’d made a beeline for the boys with boxers…
Just then an all-too familiar THUCKA-THUCKA reverberated off in the distant night sky. He felt his butt-cheeks tighten reflexively against the matted midnight-black thong. THUCKA-THUCKA.
Muttering a half-curse, half-prayer under his breath, Huz Yo Bag Dadi could only hope the Washington Post would eulogize his reputation for scrupulous scholarship while short-shrifting the acres of lopped heads. Stranger things had happened.
The THUCKA-THUCKAs grew louder…