The rhythmic thump was off in the distance, and coming closer. I could feel it in my bones. Fighting the pounding in my forehead, I pushed an eyelid north with one quivering finger, seeking the source of the merciless intrusion. Out of my peripheral, finely honed by hours in the skydiving environment, I saw my tongue, stretching away into the distance. It was firmly secured to my pillow, and dry as a bone. Slowly, I retracted my gear, and continued to focus on the incessant thumping. There! Mr. Stitches, my fearless tomcat! Gently licking his goods in the early morning light, and causing his hind leg to bounce on the counter of my desk! Curse you, Mr. S! A half-hearted lob of an empty beer bottle sent him scurrying on his way. The tinkling of glass brought me to my senses, and I sat bolt upright in bed. My brain squealed in protest, and a cry escaped from my lips. It reminded me of the way Sulako had shrieked last night as Beechball nipple-twisted him.
I looked at the clock. 7:43 am! Crripes....I jumped into the shower, but not before slapping in some ZZ Top, and winding the volume knob to 10. Before long, I was soaping to the percussion stylings of Dusty Rhodes and the boys as they filled me in on the finer points of dress. "Sharp Dressed Man" is more than a song to me, fellows. It is an anthem. I use it like a checklist!
Out of the shower, with a quick glance at the clock. 7:54.
Onto my dressing quarters now, where I don my sharp dressed suit, white shoes, bolo tie and calculator watch. Quick run up on the hair dryer, then max power....fluff the mullet to max density. PSST...PSST....a sharp dressed blast of hairspray ensures zero movement. I was excited.
Mr. Stitches was pumped too, as I could see his licking increase in frequency and intensity. It was time for the secret weapon; the deal clincher. I crept quietly into my parent's bedroom, and made my way to the closet. Opening the doors slowly, I saw my target sitting there: a black fedora, approximately 2 feet in diameter. With my new walking stick, I would look like Zorro! 
Clock check: 8:13. Time to roll.
Minutes later the El Camino was spooling to freeway power as I mashed the gas pedal into the floor mat and cranked the Motley Crue cassette to a deafening din. It was time for a walk on the "Wildside", chaps. Time to dance with the big boys. The Fedora clamped firmly on my head caused the mullet to splay mightily across my shoulders. Thank god for Lateral Raises, chaps! I checked myself out in the mirror as I swerved and deked my way into the morning traffic. Looking pretty diesel.
I popped out a few quick poses as I shot past buses packed with commuting ladies. Time check. 9:05. Pulling into the parking lot, I smiled broadly.
Fashionably late is always the way to go, chaps. Always leave them wanting, waiting and wondering. Wheeling the mightly Camino into the spot closest the door, I drove the brake pedal down to the floor, and arrived with a screeching roar of rubber, music and mojo. I let the Camino idle, and fine tuned the volume as Nikki Sixx let go with a wicked guitar solo just at the time two hotties walked by into the building. They turned and looked at me in awe. Thanks Nikki, I owe you one! 9:10. Showtime. After getting the once-over from "the man", I was led into a pretty swanky boardroom. My walking stick made an impressive 'tock, tock' as I strutted, the feather in my Dad's hat bouncing to my internal groove. As I entered, my bottom jaw dropped: the HR chick was a total babe! I ignored the other dude and stared into those beautiful eyes. "This is your lucky day," I confirmed for her. She bit her lip, and whispered "okay, please sit down". Sit I shall, cherie.
"Henri, could we see your logbook, please?" 'The Man' was speaking to me. Love would have to wait, doll. It was go-time. I cuffed her gently on the chin and gave her two gentle hand pistol shots. Verrrrry slowly. It was pretty intimate.
Then it happened. As I leaned down to retrieve my logbook (or, as I call it, my legend-book), I had a catastrophic pant failure. An in-interview emergency situation!
My pants exploded. I felt the rush of air as my seat depressurized, and stale boardroom air rushed in. My gold Louis Vitton bikini briefs took the brunt of the flapping fabric, and protected me from full exposure, but the damage was horrendous. The popping seams sounded like firecrackers in my ears, and the tearing sounded like the time Mr. Stitches took down the living room curtains on Christmas Eve two years ago. At times like these, chaps, do as I do: stick to the primary mission. I scooped up my legend-book, and hurled it at the man, spinning in midair like a trained dolphin, and wrenching the fedora from my head in one smooth, fluid movement. Clamping it tightly to my exposed buttocks, I dropped momentarily into full attack-mongoose pose before bounding into my chair.
It all took only a second to accomplish, and I was seated comfortably in front of them. I doubt anyone noticed. There I sat, my mighty chest swelling with pride. Smiling. Nodding. HR chick fanned herself and forced herself to concentrate on the notes in front of her. Good luck!
The interview proceeded. Naturally they were all in awe of my achievements, and I batted down their questions like imbound shuttlecocks. Since it was an airline interview, I made sure to liberally sprinkle my responses with pilot talk--this helps a lot, rookies, so they can imagine what you are going to sound like on the radio. You're welcome!
"Are you willing to relocate?"
-Affirmative-
"Tell us about your career:"
-Roger that, say when ready to copy. ("uhh....ready") Roger that. Roger THAT! The tales spewed forth; the bar fights, the U-Haul moves, all my left seat warmers that didn't know ANYTHING until I showed up...the skydiving gags, the conquests...oh the conquests! I spared no detail, chaps. You have got to be honest.
About 10 minutes into the interview, I started to feel a bit...curious. Strange. Deep inside the core of Henri, all was not well. Maybe it was nerves, but...no. Curse the Lone Star! Curse the refried beans! Damn Birdog for not being able to sustain my onslaught and fight back, keeping me from the blessed fruit! I knew that smell. It was the smell of fear.
It started like a far away roar...like a 182 on final. Soon, it was upon me, and tore through my Vittons like that ghostly spirit at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.
Do as Indy does! I slammed my eyes shut as it broke free. Oh God, don't look at it! The Fedora wilted under it's fury, and could not contain it. The Fear flowed up, up, across the table and crouched on it like a living thing. Trying not to attract attention, I casually fanned the table. Oh geez, get back here! The Fear looked at 'the man' and looked back at me. It cackled and nodded. Slowly. I stared in horror. It then jumped up and hugged his face, and I watched his expression change from somber to horrified. Like some kind of manical fart-goblin, Fear jumped down, and ran....right towards the HR lady! Giggling with glee, Fear grabbed her ears and started dry-humping her nose! No!! This was a nightmare. Time to act! Clutching the shattered Zorro hat, I catapulted myself across the table, scooping up my book of legends. Seven backflips later, I was at the door, and hung one-handed from the door frame, leaning into the room as I waved my goodbye. I will never forget the sound of the retching and coughing, and my eyes stung with tears as I surveyed the chaos I had created. Goodbye, mon cherie. I blew her a kiss through the foul air. She must have just seen this blue figure looming through the haze, and been reaching for the airborne love when, looking back...I was gone forever.
It was very impressive. Mr. Stitches and I can't wait for the sim ride.
