I received a call from my friend Kyle and he wasn't happy. In fact, he was incensed and very close to being inflamed. You don't want to be around Kyle when he's inflamed - you can get burnt. He carries matches for such occasions and will take one out, strike it up and find a patch of skin on your body. Kyle believes in sharing his inflammation. It explains why his friends wear long sleeves in his presence...long sleeves covered in fire retardant. Kyle's not invited to many formal occasions.

"Kyle, can this wait? I'm packing a lunch. It's gonna be a long therapy session."

But it couldn't wait. Nothing can ever wait with Kyle. The man goes through life like a snowplow without brakes. Not with broken brakes. Without brakes. It's like Kyle came from a factory that produced snowplows without brakes. We can only hope Kyle was the last one on the line. 

"What's going on?"

"The G spot," he says.

"Sure," I say.

"Dude in Florida lies, man. He lies through his balls which, if I ever meet him, I will cut off and make into a puppet...a Fidel Castro that every Cuban in Miami can whack them with their shoes."

Kyle was more incoherent than normal. Whatever had him by the short hairs...was pulling.

"A plane ticket to Florida...what'll that set me back? Forget it. Flying crushes my self-esteem. Just a sec. I have to go masturbate."

"Thank you for that, Kyle." And he hung up. But I knew he'd be back. Like teal.