One time, my good friend Pete and I were hanging out in his apartment with mutual friends. Music was blaring and everyone was three sheets to the Vodka Collins and Whiskey.
Grabbing a bunch of his photo albums, I began flipping through the snapshots of Pete’s life: holding up giant cider mugs in Australia, braving icy Scottish winds with an ex-girlfriend, playing with neighborhood kids…
I noticed he had this one friend that kept appearing throughout the decades, and about 80 percent of the time was pointing at something ass-related.
They were playing at the zoo, and this kid was pointing at a monkey’s butt.
They were tromping through the forest when this kid was pointing out deer poop and smiling.
They were awkward teenagers when he held up a magazine featuring some woman’s shiny hindquarters.
“Who is this guy? ” I asked my buddy.
“Oh, that’s Jake” was Pete’s reply.
Well, it just so happens that Jake ends up walking through the door about an hour later. Swiveling around to see who arrived, I immediately recognized him from all the photos.
“You’re JAKE!” I shouted, buzzing with lowered inhibitions. “YOU REALLY LIKE BUTTS!”
Jake turned pink, wondering how to best maneuver that kind of intro.
“Umm, yes… well, I think many men like butts,” he said.
“Some men like butts,” I replied, “And then some men REALLY, REALLY like butts.”
Jake ended up being a really nice guy, despite his freakishly all-consuming ass obsession. Pete later told me a funny story about him after he left.
“We were talking about what we’d do if we found a genie in a lamp that granted us three wishes,” Pete began.
“Mmm hmm, ” I responded, bracing myself for something truly disturbing.
“Well, he figured there are women who can stick things up their butts, but this would be a genie with magical powers. So he’d pick out stuff like, say, a couch, and tell her to fit the couch up her butt.”
I blinked rapidly as he continued.
“And after shoving the couch up her butt, he’d tell her to stuff a Volkswagen up there.”
“And then for his final wish,” Pete said, trying to get the rest of the story out without exploding into laughter, “He’d say, ‘Now I want you to turn around, walk out that door, and never see me again, never contact me, never call me ever again.”
Pete laughed himself stupid, howling and wiping tears from his cheeks every time he remembered it again. I pondered this for a minute.
“Well it’s a good thing he used up his final wish that way,” I started.
“Because I CAN’T IMAGINE why an all-powerful genie goddess wouldn’t be dying for a long-term relationship with the guy who makes her shove Volkswagens up her ass.”
Pete collapsed into wheezing hysterics.
Men are so weird.