When Real Estate Porn Turns Dark

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(After I sent him a real estate listing for a huge historic estate…)

Ryan: Great property, and I like the tree-lined drive.

Me: It would be perfect for a dog herd.

Ryan: Dogs? We could just set the children loose among the trees!

Me: I don’t even care if the damn thing is haunted.

Ryan: That might even make it better.  Just as long as the walls don’t bleed.

Me: Agreed, I draw the line at supernatural bodily fluids.

Ryan: Wise boundary, you have no idea where those ghosts have been.

Me: Well, yeah, something killed them.

I’m Just A Little Slackery This Year.

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Okay, this is truly pathetic…I mean to post this when it happened in March, so bear with me, and pretend that it’s St. Patrick’s Day, and excuse me for being, apparently, so drunk that I’m just getting around to hitting the ‘publish’ button.

Me: (Sending picture)12733386_10208132405763596_7973043262048863464_n

Ryan: Lick of the Irish?  That sounds like the makings of an excellent evening.

Me: This is why we’re together.

(Five minutes later…)

Ryan: Order whatever you want on it, the kids will eat it.

Ryan: Damn it, disregard, this is what happens when I text you and my mom at the same time.  She and I were trying to figure out what kind of pizza to order for dinner.

Me: Just be happy you texted me about pizza, and didn’t text her about your cunnilingus skills.

Ryan: Yeah, nothing kills the mood more than talking to your mom about giving head.  That’s the anti-viagra.

Me: That will never be on a Cialis ad.

Ryan: If it were, it would be two side-by-side bathtubs with one of them falling over a cliff.

And This Is Why Women Resort To Cat-Ownership

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Linney: Dude.  Are you ready for me to be online dating?  This gem arrived this morning.

Linney Date

Me: W. T. Actual. Fuck.

Linney: Hefty.  It’s got…heft.

Me: Better than ‘girthy’?

Linney: Yes. Or ‘pencil thin’.

Me: ‘Slim-dicked wrestler seeks soul mate.’

Politics…Bringing People Together Since…Never

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(Don’t even ask what started this conversation…our texts have a narrative thread that falls somewhere between mescaline overdose and fever-dream.)

Ryan: How would you like a Trump-Cruz ticket.?

Me: I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of me dying.

Ryan: That’s something you could put on Pay-Per-View.

(A second later…)

Ryan: To be clear…Trump-Cruz, not your dying.

Me: Thanks for clarifying, sweetie.  Wait, are you saying my death isn’t good enough for Pay-Per-View?

Ryan: Yeah…I don’t think I can win here, so I’m just going to tell you you’re pretty and hope for the best.

 

Your Body And You…A Tale Of Treachery.

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(If you haven’t watched Romancing the Stone, this entire conversation will make no sense, and I demand you rent it immediately.  Whoever gets the royalties for that…I don’t expect payment, but a high-five would be nice.)

Ryan: You’re coming over tomorrow night?

Me: As long as you understand that I MIGHT be a germ risk, and that I sound like Kathleen Turner right now.

Ryan: Joan Wilder!  THE Joan Wilder!  I read all your books!

Me: This is going to be a thing, isn’t it?

Ryan: Yes, yes, it is.

And My Butler Will Only Have Four Fingers On Each Hand!

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Me: I’m winning the Powerball on Wednesday.

Ryan: Best to start planning now.  I suggest permanent Disneyland passes with one of those tour guides that gets you to the front of the line.

Me: And one of those awesome suites as well.

Ryan: Can we just buy an apartment IN the park?  Maybe hidden somewhere in the new Star Wars Land?

Me: Only if the kitchen can be modeled after the Millennium Falcon.  Only cleaner.

Ryan: Much cleaner.  Don’t know what Han and Lando have done on that ship.

Me: Or Chewie!  His palms didn’t get that hairy for nothing.

Ryan: ……..