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I loved being on the radio. Here's a radio tale ... only the names have been changed to protect the innocent ... not that any of us were innocent ...
Be advised, this story acknowledges the existence of sex ...
Floyd was filling his pipe, looking out the window at the back of the station.
I hit the sounder for the noon news and was just about to read the intro when Floyd yelled,
"Hey shitbird, where did Carl say he was goin' for lunch today?"
The old engineers voice was trembling and his face was as pasty as a garden slug.
"Hey, old man, can’t you see I’m on the air here for Chrissakes,” I hissed, killing the mike. I let the sounder roll and said, "He told me he was eating at the 'Y', which I guess means he's bangin' that old babe he met at the laundry mat. You know, the one that lives right back there. I think she's still got a couple of days before he moves on to his next ugly housewife. Now, shut up and let me do the news."
"Yeah, well, ol' Carl ain't got hisself a couple a minutes, 'cause her husband just pulled up, I 'spect for some lunch and a nooner of his own, and I figure he ain't gonna be thrilled to find another pig eatin' out of his trough. Or his wife."
I killed the news bed and slammed the "WNDY is now experiencing technical difficulties" cart into the machine.


I nearly knocked Floyd out of the window grabbing a spot for what was shaping up to be one hell of a show.
Mr. Nooner climbed out of his mud-splattered truck, which was loaded with the tools of a construction worker. I had him pegged him as a roofer. His scalp was burned angry red through his military crew cut, his arms and thighs looked like slabs of concrete. A "U.S. NAVY, NORFOLK tattoo rippled on his left bicep as he grabbed his steel lunch pail and headed toward the house. A substantial beer gut gave testimony to a few too many brown-bottle lunches, but gut or no gut, this guy could kill ol’ Carl with one swipe of his catcher's mitt sized hand.
So, perhaps it was God's own mercy that after 20some years of marriage, the missus had finally convinced her old man to "use the back door and take off those filthy damn boots" when he came in from work. That pause to untie his work boots probably saved Carl's life.
As the cuckolded husband was bent over his gut untying his boots at the back door, Carl, as naked as the day God made him, exploded out of the front, attempting to run full speed and pull his pants on at the same time.
He'd have got away clean if it hadn't been for Mr. Nooner's rabbit hounds. They started baying wildly at the site of a naked man scrambling out of the yard. Nooner stuck his head around the corner just in time to see what looked to him like a by-God hairy ass ducking around the Dempsey Dumpster behind John’s diner.
He stared a second in the direction the dumpster, waiting for Carl to reappear. Finally he muttered, "Dumb-ass college boys. I thought that streakin' shit was over with…” and walked into the house to eat his lunch and maybe grab a little dessert if the old woman was in the mood.
Meanwhile, Floyd and me had just about pissed ourselves laughing.
And WNDY was still experiencing technical difficulties.
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