Veritable Plethora things of a high interest nature

Megan Fox Keeps Texting Me

It's not that I don't find Megan Fox attractive, it's just that I know she's unavailable.  She's dating Beverly Hills rich kid and hip-hop impresario David Silver (aka Brian Austin Green).  Yet, she still won't stop texting me every night begging me to meet her for a coffee at Coffee Bean or to just come over "to hang out" at midnight after she gets home from whatever red carpet event she's gracing with her presence.  

And it's not that I don't appreciate her work.*  Did you see her on that motorcycle in Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen?  Or opening that car hood in the first Transformers?  Megan Fox obviously has prodigious gifts as an actress, and she's relatively easy on the eyes, but I just refuse to meet her for a second time.

I guess I should explain how we met the first time.  Well...

It was a cool night in Los Angeles.  It had been a hot day so the undulating, crisp breeze in the air was a welcome respite.  I sat at the bar in a tiny watering hole called the Golden Gopher, acquainting my face with a $3 Pabst Blue Ribbon beer in a can (they serve that there).  

Megan Fox came and sat down two bar stools down the way from me.  Mustering the strength to lift my weary head, I cast a furtive glance at the slim brunette who had sat down.  My eyes lingered over her svelte frame a second too long, I guess, because it wasn't long before she said to me coolly, sultry lips dripping with sex, "Take a picture chief, it'll last longer."

I was taken aback and looked back into my aluminum stein of piss-beer to regroup.  Then I let out a bellow of a laugh that even I was surprised to hear.  The barkeep froze, towel over his shoulder, another one in his hand wiping down a pint glass, and pretended not to be fully aware of what was going on, but he was watching.  Oh yes, he was watching.

My hearty laugh softened into the finishing crescendo of a chuckle, which I hoped would serve to dampen its rude, condescending nature.  But the chuckle only fueled the fire, a fire whose flames I would continue to fan for the rest of the evening despite my best efforts. 

I turned to Megan Fox, whose eyes I could feel burning into the side of my skull with ferocity, and said, "Chief?  That's the best you got?  Take a picture?  It'll last longer?  That's your A-game?"

She paused, weakened by my obvious strength--it had become a meeting of two powerhouses, two planets colliding.  The tension was palpable.  The services of a warm butter knife should have been called upon, but the kitchen was closed.  We were left with nothing but our wits and enviable physiques to protect us now.   

Emboldened, I continued, "I would have expected better...Megan."

Megan Fox paused for a second, laughed, then her defenses were discarded, the rigidity of her body language folding in on itself like a house of cards made out of spaghetti built on a foundation of sand.  In other words, the game of chess was nearing conclusion.  

With a quick flurry of long limbs, Megan Fox hopped off her bar stool, passed by the two between us, and sat down on the one next to me, her hand grazing my shoulder.

"Barkeep," I said, "better get me another Pabst."

To be continued...

*evidence: my appreciation of Megan Fox's work as an actress