My Kind of Mess

Not too long ago in dog years Your Pal Foz was sitting with his good Old Pal at the Shamrock in Chicago.

It was plenty crowded with working stiffs, drinking off the daily humiliation of having a job, while simultaneously toasting their great good fortune at having a job. You know the game.

Over at the end of the bar She was sitting with a friend, over-served and under-dressed, shedding the remains of a rumpled business suit-miniskirt combo that, years ago, advertised her as the highly accomplished power-party-girl that we all once wished we were. Oh, she was an especially rare kind of bitter-hot, salt-n-pepper haired working stiff sexpot, spinning on that barstool and staring right through the indulgent bartender. At any moment she might get up and dance on the bar, or she might pitch over backward. Either way was fine with the barflies. They just came for the show.

Now, Foz’s Pal is the flirtatious type, especially when he gets a few in him himself. He headed on over to the bar to fill up our empty domestic piss drafts, and like any dashing gent, offered to buy both ladies another round. Minutes later, Old Pal comes spinning back to the table, trailing smoke. I says “What happened,” to which Old Pal replied, “Oh, she’s my kind of mess!”

Moments later we had a stack of bar napkins arranged in front of us, and wrote up a series of stanzas that later turned out to be indiscernible.

But the title remained, and thus was born the FtH classic hit, My Kind of Mess (Buy it Now!).

That’s the story, my friends, and don’t let anybody tell you different. Even if its me.

To illustrate this story, here is a picture of a pretty lady. She’s my kind of mess too.