Oh, my? Is it really 4 o’clock already? Boy, time really does fly while you’re sitting at your desk imagining legendary jazzman Louis Armstrong making love!
Why it seems like just five minutes ago that I sat down to my desk and began to imagine in vivid detail the gentle caress of Satchmo’s sturdy yet sensitive hand on the lower back of an enchanted chanteuse mesmerized by the charm and silent confidence of a genuine sultan of swing! But here I sit, nearly six hours later, and my docket’s still full!
I guess that’s what happens when you daydream about the most touted trumpeter of the Jazz Age, a man who whose credentials on the cornet no doubt paled in comparison to his brilliance beneath the bed linens. Who can concentrate on spreadsheets or conference calls when their mind is running wild with images of Pops seamlessly switching from missionary to doggystyle amid the exultant cries of yet another carnally content counter girl? Certainly not this fella!
It seems time does in fact fly when your mind simply can’t stray from thoughts of America’s most storied scat man furiously thrusting his awe-inspiring endowment in and out of a delirious damsel. Why sure I forgot that important client lunch this afternoon, but can you really blame a gent for missing a meal when his mind is racing a mile a minute at the thought of a jazz legend engaging in tantric titillation for hours on end?
Because you might not know it, but the sand in your hourglass runs out pretty fast when daydreaming about the inexhaustible lechery of a jazz virtuoso getting some stray stank on his hang down. Yes, friends, few hobbies hasten the passage of time more than fantasizing about a long-deceased musical megastar pile-driving your life partner into ecstatic submission during another night of limitless lovemaking.
Perhaps now you see why I never answered those urgent emails? After all, it’s not every afternoon when your thoughts float away to the tune of Dippermouth’s distinctive voice as he methodically mounts a half dozen manic maidens during an all-night orgy in his dressing room inside the Apollo, now is it?
So excuse me if I didn’t process these invoices. Surely you must know I meant to get to them, but my mind simply drowned in the image of an inspiring instrumentalist with a flair for fornication running his masterly mitts up and down the torso of a spellbound songstress before showing her just what he can do with his trouser trumpet.
In Poor Taste 