Hott Lixx: Infinitesimal Passion

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craftmaticPassion is a multi-layered cake. Setbacks for raisins, Love for flour, and sweet, sweet sexual tension for frosting. Although I'm getting older and it's harder for me to sit up in bed so I bought an adjustable bed from the TV, the reason I get up in the morning is passion. Passion for the Ranch, passion for my sweet Epiphone Les Paul, passion for booze 'n the finer things in life.

I recently went to a party. Although I didn't know the hosts, I was invited by a conversation I overheard between two people who walked by me when I was eating a Whopper on a park bench. I finished up, licked m' fingers, and off I went, feeling secure, feeling personable. Passion. I headed to the university area where the party was reported to be, and finally found it after walking somewhat aimlessly for 20 minutes or so. Soon I heard the faint sound of one of my favorite bands, N.W.A., blasting from a house about a block away and headed toward it, passion welling in my chest and butterflies in my prostate. I arrived at the house. About a baker's dozen of college kids stared at me, incredulous. "Wow," they must have been thinking, "is it really him?" 'Course, me being me and they being so starstruck, they didn't say a word. They just stared, some of them taking sips of barleywine from their red plastic goblets.

house"'Scuse me, gents," I posited, trying to break the ice, "be this the party I've heard so much about?"

One of the young men, a strapping lad in a humorous t-shirt that read in bold-face type, "Pussy Inspector," stepped down to meet me at eye-level.

"Who invited you, you old motherfucker?" he said. I cocked an eyebrow. A challenger!

I leant on my time-tested technique for dealing with a ne'er-do-well.

"I was invited to this party by your mother. She told me to keep tabs on you, young man," I said, slyly, but with intent and passion.

The youth had no response. He shook his behatted head and laughed a mocking laugh, as if to further inflame my passions and cause me to lose my cool. Fat chance!

"Yo, Bob Barker, this is an A.B. party, so you better C. yo' way outta it!" He said in a California-accented crescendo of poor grammar and vitriol.

No two ways about it. Passion for partying can only take you so far, sometimes. In this case, I only got to the front door of an A.B. party populated by simian roughnecks. I made my leave like a gentleman, turning on my heels and walking 15 paces before turning to flip them off and say, "Get bent, you squares," then heading back to Burger King to get Whopper no. 2. A little nightcap.autopark

Sometimes the party comes to you. Other times, you find out about the party and go to it. Either way, there's something sublime about a night out on the town, when the cool Denver air hits your lungs, oxygenating your blood, and the scent of city park pine trees combines with the scent of fine wine swathed in a brown bag and you bask in the ethereal joy of the sweet denouement of a park-bathroom handjob. And though your wallet returns to the pocket a bit lighter and the stench of shame can't be washed off in the shower, passion reigns supreme, undying, unending, and unflinching.



Marcus "Jojo" Timmins is the lead guitarist of the Denver Metro Area metal band Hidden Valley Man Ranch 2, formerly known as Hidden Valley Man Ranch. "The Ranch" is available for birthday parties, cocktail parties, bat mitzvah's, and high school dances.


  • 1

    Hear Hear. I too know the unspoken joys of public allotment cranktugs. Unfortunately, I have found myself on the receiving end of a policeman's baton on two occasions whilst chasing the fleshdragon!

  • 2

    unreal, Jojo. bravo.

  • 3

    Why u such a Cali h8ah, yo? We talks good and shit, sheeeyit...

  • 4

    Yah, Ca-lee-four-nee-ya is a great place, haven't you seen our tell-ee-vee-see-on commercials?

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