Harley Nights

(or the Fast Track to the Fast Food Byway)

I was anxious to see my sugar baby, aching for her sweet kisses. And not on account she owes me a $100,000 grand, either. Oh no. That had nut-n-honey to do with it, as we say on the Fast Food Byway.
No-sirree-bob, my sweet 'lil Wendy is a true lifesaver; a Scottish lass from the clan MacDonald, she is. Candy-apple red hair, lips like ripe strawberries, eyes the color of the tastiest blueberries, all wrapped up in a beautiful peaches and cream complexion. The sweetest confection man has ever seen . . . and me? I'm lucky enough to be her sugar daddy. They call me Big Mac.
Now, here's where my story gets a bit complicated. You see, I wanted to take my sweet little succotash to the Disco, maybe do that new dance, the Mash Potato. Got myself all steamed up, raring to go, when she phones me.
Big Mac," she says, "I was out sunnin' today, and that darn sun broiled me alive. I can't go tonight, on account I look like a red lobster."
"Aww c'mon, Sugar Muffin," I replied, "can't ya put some of that soothin' whipped cream stuff on it? That new band, Oreo SpeedWagon is playin'." I knew I was whining, but I really wanted to hear that band from York, the town right next to Wrigley.
"Donut harass me," she screamed, "I said I can't go! Besides, there's so much sand in my hair, it looks like cold spaghetti."
Yuck, I thought, picturing what she described. My innards turned and twisted into hard knots. Swallowing, I tried one more time. "But sweetness, I already forked over the dough for our tickets!" I knew I was pushing it. Would probably lose my hero status in her eyes.
"Listen here, jelly beans for brains," she screeched, "don't ruffle me any more. You got me so mad, I don't think I want to give you your surprise. . . ."
A cold fist grabbed my gut, yanking all the fizz outta me. "Surprise?" I squeeked.
"Yeah," was her frosty reply, "I been practicin' my piano. I was gonna surprise you with my rendition of Chopsticks!" She was milking it for all it was worth.
Now I felt like a real corndog. Even in pain, my sweet lil' tootsie was thinking of me. My stomach went sweet-n-sour, thinking I might have to travel the Fast Food Byway, by myself. Which brings me back to what I was gonna ask you.
"Ya got any Rolaids, sister?"

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