Come Fly With Me

comeflywithme.jpg
Full effect appreciated only if photo is clicked, thank you
I will leave it up to you to figure it out. Just know that the stuff you’re supposed to be noticing here may lead you to think I have the sense of humor of a 12-year-old boy and to murmur to yourself, “Oh, Jodi, I didn’t know you had it in you.”
I am sorry to disappoint anyone who considers me “mature”. Also: I feel I must apologize to Mr. Vonnegut, for having this be the first thing I post after the entry about him (two whole weeks ago). Somehow, though, I think he would forgive me, and perhaps even chuckle. Yes.

0 thoughts on “Come Fly With Me

  1. Backscatter. I’m not sure what is worse, that I thought of alternative definitions upon reading it, or that you did too. Whatta coupla sick fucks.

  2. Backscatter: n’ (Bak’ska-turr) Your fecal material in a fine spray or sheen on your own back. Occurs when your partner, standing up, grips you at the hips, performing oral sex on you while you service your partner and you have sudden, uncontrollable loose stool flatulence. Often follows a romantic dinner of curried tofu. (We went to that new “Depak Ya’Sure!” Minnesotan-Indian fusion place and my date was like a backspatter gyser!)

  3. The word immediately reminded me of an automotive related event.
    Backscatter: The oily emulsion that flies from your exhaust pipe as you attempt to pass another vehicle on a long hill (like, maybe Storm King Mountain) in an 85 Dodge with a bad head gasket. Ick?! Although nowhere near as Ick?! as Thomas’ definition.

  4. On my annual pilgramage to Ottumwa, Iowa, I recently was stopped at a security checkpoint at the Greater Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International Airport (so namede becuase it is actually in Northern Kentucky, but heaven forbid that anywone would actually realize there IS life outside the city limits and therefore we MUST put the name of our fine metropolis up there too lest we appear in some way to be of less import than those kindly hillbilly folk in Northern Kentucky).
    It seems that the large African American man (and unlike tofu and Jews, all African Americans do not look alike)was rather suspicious of a large protrusion in my pants. Assuming I was just well endowed, he looked up at me and said, “Hey, brother!” I said, “Brother? I don’t understand.”
    He relplied, “Well, if you’re packin’ a party favor like that, you MUST have some African soul in your lineage somewhere.” Embarassed, I rushed trough the checkpoint and boarded my flight for Ottumwa.
    And that’s how I smuggled a loaded howitzer onto a commercial airlines flight.
    The moral of the story… One man’s weapon is another man’s love machine.

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