89 “You got it. But are you gettin’ it?”

The Administrative Assistant peeked over the top of her screen and saw Uncle Joe on the other side of the street. At some point in time she’d heard “The Hunter” by Ike and Tina Turner. Although it was on her iPod and she knew it back, forth, and sideways, she guessed the first time it touched every nerve was when she was flipping through Music Choice. A bass guitar grabbed her on Classic Rhythm & Blues enough to force her fingertip off the +. She had no idea it was a sound familiar to baby Drew. Somewhere within the architectonics of a particular syllogism lay the proposition that she had no idea of baby Drew. If a baby wasn’t baptized they didn’t want to hear about him, not at City Hall.
“Ow! Ain’t he sweet!” she sang, just like Tina Turner forty years before.
The Administrative Assistant liked her men with their sleeves cut off. That Uncle Joe had a brain-dead tattoo and looked like compound Def Leppard in concert spritzed his appeal. He was in front of Ludwig’s Liquor and Smoke Shop, the distance from the mayor’s outer office window equivalent to thirty rows of reserved seats at a rock concert. Best of all, he was worthless. He was a Guss. A syllogism obtained somewhere there, too.
Naturally, she glorified him as a “bad boy.” She was a talented civic servant professionally and what Uncle Joe would call a d___ c___ in her private life.
She wouldn’t have held the sentiment against him, because he was younger. In this hypothetical scenario, her next response would be that she could change him.
Males the world over die laughing at the thought.


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