DMFT: A True Story

My tender, fluffy little cotton-tailed kittens--

Your ol' Sweet Tea been sparse around these parts. I was on such a roll there for a while, wasn't I? Boy, those were the days.

You all know me, so you know why things came to a screeching halt. I've talked about it with (probably) everyone reading this, but I've never mentioned it on this blog. But here goes: my dad got sick. Four months later, he died. But that alone isn't why I stopped blogging. I didn't stop blogging because I didn't have time or because I no longer found vanity plates or mammograms funny...I stopped blogging because I hated being able to enjoy anything--to laugh at anything--when I was watching helplessly as my father suffered.

That's why you don't see too many blog posts here, and when you do, the posts are about weather or my adventures around the house.

Well. I saw some dear friends recently who said they missed the blog (tragic, isn't it?). And I told them about how it's more than just a life change, I told them about the guilt of laughing while someone you love is dying. And they listened. And they were wonderful. And then they told me to get back to writin'.

So here you go. I tried to publish this thing nearly a year ago, but it was just too funny. Too rich. Too much of a good story to believe it really happened. But it did.

SO THERE I WAS. At a Bastille Day celebration in St. Louis. 2012.

There were things for sale, like these here whistles:

There were cute kids, like this here ALF who walked right up to me and gave me the ol' "pick me up or I'll scream" face:

ALFs: Adorable Little Fuckers

There was an auction for a wheelbarrow-o-booze:

There was even a Louis/Marie Anoinette "execution":

And you just KNOW there were some hotties there:

This hot, loincloth-wearing piece wouldn't pose with me until I allowed him to throw a pelt over my shoulders. Truth.

And then...there was THIS. His name was Dennis, and he...uh...introduced himself to me as I was leaving. There was a concert in the park, but Dennis was too classy of a guy to sit with all the other commoners in the park. Dennis pulled his truck up to the park, cracked a cold one, and enjoyed the show.

As I was walking along, I heard a "HEY!" Like a good girl, I ignored it. Surely someone wasn't speaking to me that-a-way. But then I heard it again: "HEEEEYYYY! In the green dress!"

I stopped. I turned and stared at him. "Where you goin' in such a hurry? Come on up here and keep me company."

I told him that, as much as I surely wanted to, I was sad to see that there was no place for me to sit. He patted the top of his cooler emphatically and said, "Come on up."

He asked me my name. I told him it was Sweet Tea. (Actually, I gave him my sister's name. Don't judge. Melissa, you're just now learning this--I'm sorry.) I asked him his name, and I swear to you that he said, "It's Dennis. Dennis Mutha Fucken Thompson."

"Real nice," I said. "Dennis Mutha Fucken Thompson. Cute."

"It's true," he said. "Look here at my tit."

Check out those above-left-nipple initials: D.M.F.T.

Believe me when I tell you I was surprised. I said, "That's not what that means. Seriously?"

"Everybody calls me that," he insisted. "People get so used to saying it that they'd have to be careful when you couldn't cuss. Like, when I used to work at Hobby Lobby, they'd page me on the intercom and they'd say, 'Dennis Muth...uh...Dennis, can you come to Returns & Exchanges.'"

"You worked at Hobby Lobby?" I asked.

"Yeah. And I brought my lunch to work every day in a lunchbox that said D.M.F.T. on it. When some new guy asked me what it stood for and I told him, he didn't believe me, so I had to show him my tit."