Today I tripped over the yellow pages. It wasn’t entirely my fault either. The delivery person had thrown the book right in the middle of my porch, right in front of the door. I brought the book inside and tossed it in the recycling bin. I never use the yellow pages. Not since the Balls Incident.
The Balls Incident occurred when I lived in Los Angeles. As you might suspect, Los Angeles’s yellow pages are much bigger than here in Tahlequah, Oklahoma. In L.A. the book is as big as a concrete block and weighs about the same, too. I didn’t use the yellow pages there either unless you count the time my couch broke a leg and I used the book to hold that end up.
To be truthful, the Balls Incident didn’t happen because of the yellow pages. Not exactly. It was the pink pages. The pink pages are just like the yellow pages except they’re pink. And all the businesses listed inside are gay owned.
I had just watched that Ellen episode – the TV sitcom, not the talk show – where Ellen used the pink pages to call a gay plumber. This particular episode happened in the season right after the character Ellen, played by Ellen, had come out of the closet and right before the show died because people didn’t want to see funny lesbians. Audiences think fags are funny – who doesn’t – but funny and lesbians don’t belong together in the same sentence. They did a poll on this very topic out in Tarzana. But I digress…
Ellen used the pink pages to call a gay plumber and it turned out the plumber wasn’t gay. I think. Okay, maybe it wasn’t all that funny after all.
I had just bought a house and was all excited to be a homeowner. Or as they call it in the pink circles – a homo-owner. However, my new house was filthy. I mistakenly had all my belongings delivered and unpacked before I’d had the house cleaned. I was busy writing a TV movie on a deadline – and I thought the deadline was tres important because, after all, TV movies can and do make the world a happier place. Again, another poll in Tarzana proved this. But I digress…
I didn’t have time to clean my new house and it was too dirty to live in. So, fueled by Ellen’s moral of throwing my money to gay businesses, I let my fingers do the walking through the pink pages and called up the Down and Dirty Cleaning Service. I made an appointment for them to clean my house the next morning while I was off battling producers.
The next day, I came home and found their van parked in my driveway. They’d found the key right where I’d said it would be and had let themselves in. I walked in my front door and was greeted by the sight of an ass. An ass bent over and aimed right at me. And this ass was not of the female variety either. This was an ass of the hairy male variety. And all his male works were dangling between his legs. Bouncing around down there while he swiped a dust cloth over my coffee table.
I guess I shrieked or something because he turned around and everything that could jiggle did.
“Are you Down and Dirty?” I asked.
“Are you the owner?” he asked.
“Yes,” we both said at the same time.
He had the good graces to sidle back behind my couch, but unfortunately he was too tall for the couch to hide much of anything.
“Your balls are perched on the back of my couch,” I said.
“I know,” he said.
Well, to make a long story short, Bruce (he told me name was Bruce. I told him my name was Jo Anne Worley) put on some pants and did the rest of the cleaning clothed. He explained that he did all his housecleaning naked. That all the maids who advertised in the pink pages cleaned in the buff. That’s what his customers – of the male variety – paid for. And to think, I just wanted my house cleaned.
Ellen hadn’t said anything about that in her TV show. Maybe she should have.
Bruce did clean really well, though.
I bought a new couch, too.
