Ask Me About My Grandcats!


See that sticker on the bumper of my car? It says, “Ask me about my grandcats!” I applied it to my car with sincerity. Go ahead: Ask me about my grandcats!
Notice how the sticker is an actual sticker and not some fly-by-night magnet that can be applied and taken off on any philosophical whim. No, my sticker is permanent. Ask me about the cats!

I’m sure at first glance you might have presumed that my bumper sticker was a typo, but it’s not. The silhouettes of the numerous cats next to the wording disprove your “misspelling” theory. No, this bumper sticker is the real deal.

If you’re reading this sticker, then you must be behind me, stuck in traffic, trying to pass the time, I suppose. But there are no other stickers to read on the back of my 1986 Chevy Windsor. Why not get out of the car, give a rap on the driver’s side window and heed the words of the sticker? Come on over. I won’t bite!

Here’s a little secret of the cat-trade: it is not too difficult to become a grandparent of cats. They actually reproduce quite rapidly. Why, you could go through three generations of catdom in five years’ time if you don’t mind a little incestuous magic with your cat family. I got the sticker when I first became a cat grandparent over 12 years ago. At this point, to be honest, my sticker should say, “Ask me about my great-great-great-great-great-great-great Grandcats,” but I don’t think my bumper is wide enough to hold such a sustained message! Nyuk Nyuk!

And these aren’t just cats, mind you. They’re grand-cats, and I mean that in every sense of the word. Would you like to hear the reasoning? All you have to do is ask! All somebody has to do is ask!

My latest generation of cats seems to have been born without much motor skills. They tend to limp while they walk in concentric circles, but that only adds to their adorability and cutesy-wutesy ways! Also, their eyes are colorless.

Are you intrigued? Would you like to hear more? Come on over! Before the light turns green! You shan’t regret it! Ask me about the grandcats!


Pullin’ the Pud: That Chick From the Progressive Insurance Commercials, Flo


It’s difficult to go an entire day without coming across a Progressive Insurance advertisement and subsequently, their spokesperson: a chipper young lass by the name of Flo. Television spots, full page magazine ads, website banners, radio…she’s everywhere! And, as a male, I am biologically obligated to mentally have sex with her. How would it go? What would it be like?
Flo is a pretty bland girl. She has no distinctly feminine body structure since she dresses all in white with a smock and she is so damn happy and upbeat, you’d figure the sex would be really encouraging. Even if you prematurely ejaculated she’d probably give you a reassuring pat on the back. But a pre-jac will be most unlikely considering her pansexual features. In fact, all we know about Flo is that she loves the company she works for and everything else would come a distant second in her life. The question must be asked, “How does one get into those starchy white pants of hers? How could I turn her on in my own imagination?”

So, I am in my corner office behind my grand oak desk, sitting in my buttoned leather chair. The office is fully furnished in fine mahogany, stained dark and it smells of old money. On the desk stands a name placard. It reads: Michael Jenkins, President & CEO, Progressive Insurance. I suddenly realize that anyone who is anyone probably already knows that and doesn’t need a name card to identify myself if they are called into my office. I quickly throw the nameplate in the trash. The fireplace has a gentle flame going, but it is raising its intensity, like my lust: smoldering, ready to hiss and pop.

I press the intercom button and tell my receptionist, Janet, to let Flo into my office. (Janet is a wonderful receptionist, but a pretty weak lay, if I’m going to be honest with you.) Flo flows into my office, eyes wide with excitement. She is all smiles as per usual. I tell her to close the door and have a seat. I commend her on her diligence to bring my company up out of the cellar. She accepts the compliments with such modesty, claiming that she just loves saving people money on their insurance. She’s so coy. She’s so…Flo.

To demonstrate her passion on saving people money, she pulls out her price-zapping gun and shoots down any imaginary hidden fees and last minute taxes that the other companies are known for. She starts zapping near my collection of hand-made Pez dispensers and as she works her way over to my 1st edition Vonnegut novels, I put my hands up defensively. “Whoa, Flo! Whoa! Take ‘er easy. Nice shootin,’ but you needn’t that pistol in here.” I motion her to give me the price gun, and when she does hand it over, she also leaves herself open and vulnerable to my seductive ways.

I move out of my chair gracefully and tell her of some exciting new pricing bundles and insurance plans I would like her to represent. Her smile rolls over wide, her hands fisted and shaking with eagerness. Eagerness to sell.

Eagerness to please.

I place myself on the corner of my desk with my left leg dangling in front of Flo, letting her be aware that it is within touching distance.

I mention price bundles, deductibles, auto, home, life, renter’s…her eyes loom large and her mouth salivates like a Pavlovian Dog. I tug at my pant leg and she mimics the action and reaches out to rub my leg. It’s not me, it’s the insurance that’s doing this to her. And for some reason, I am quite ok with that.

The only challenge I can bring myself is to keep the conversation alive and electric. I am going to need to bring my full arsenal of insurance jargon to put this thing to the next level. She soon succumbs to my verbal swooning of interest rates and premium pricing plans and she takes the bait. The bait that is my penis.

As I clear off my desk with one fell swoop of my arm, I have to think about more insurance stuff to whisper into Flo’s ear. It’s going to be a monumental task to be sure: First, to talk insurance for the duration of the sexual encounter and secondly, sustaining an erection while talking about said insurance. I do know what I am going to save for the climax though. I am going to shout, “Full Medical! Full Medical!” Something like that.

Anyway, we proceed to have the most boring, palest sex imaginable, like indulging in a meal of white rice and skim milk.