I have to preface these texts by telling you that Ryan and I have a running joke about Anthem, this very Stepford-esque suburban “planned community”, that lies just north of Phoenix. He claims he heard a rumor about an underground swinger’s scene that goes on up there, where reportedly, the swingers identify themselves to each other by placing purple rocks in their yards.
Ryan: Damn it! I was up in Anthem for that service, and I didn’t get a chance to look around.
Me: You mean that, while on your way to a FUNERAL, you didn’t try and track down some swinger-sign? What’s wrong with you!?
Ryan: We could always go back this weekend. That’s a fun date, isn’t it?
Me: Me, you, some flashlights…good times. What do we do if we find any?
Ryan: “I’m sorry, but we couldn’t help noticing your rocks. We were wondering how you get them off?”
Me: “No, we don’t want to join…nice cold sore, by the way, but we’d like to observe from a safe distance. Outside the ‘Splash Zone’, if you will…”
Ryan: “Do you provide tarps? Oh, no, nevermind, we have rain panchos…that’ll do.”
Me: Good thing I keep those in my car.
Ryan: Yeah, we don’t want anything to get stained.
Me: LIKE OUR SOULS! Bring that vial of holy water I saw in your kitchen.
Ryan: Pretty sure that turns to vinegar the moment it crosses a swinger threshold.
Ryan: Sounds good. Bring galoshes.