Tania and I often frequent a local steakhouse called Damon's here in Glendale . It's pronounced DAY-muns, but I like to call it DUH-moans, after Damone from Fast Times at Ridgemont High . It's a weird little place. It's been around forever (est. 1937) and the clientele looks like they're even older. It's kind of like—well, here, I'll let the Zagat guide describe it for you:

“This ‘ South Seas retro fantasy' is a spectacle in itself, a ‘kitschy' ‘Tahitian time warp' with ‘good steaks' and ‘potent mai tais that send you to tiki heaven.'”

We go hang out at the bar and drink the mai tais. I don't know what the fuck “tiki heaven” is, but they definitely send you somewhere. On Sundays they have a brunch and there is a whole crew of regulars that show up throughout the day. It's just a bunch old, crazy people getting wasted. There's even an awesome transvestite named Erica that comes in every once and awhile. And for some reason we've been accepted into the crew. Perhaps because of our skin? I've noticed lately that old people have a fascination with younger people's skin. I don't know. But our favorite locals are two old hens named Maud and Val.

“Look Maud! It's our favorite couple,” Val will say when we arrive.

“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” Maud will yell accusingly.

Val is an airhead, but she's incredibly sweet. She shows us pictures of her lamas and gives us chocolates. Maud, on the other hand, is a very old, loud English lady that looks and sounds almost exactly like Queen Elizabeth. Maud is 81 and Val isn't far behind. They spend their entire Sunday there at the bar at Damon's, taking a break only to be seated in the dining room for a brief lunch. Not brunch, lunch.

“TOO MANY EGGS!” Maud yelled one day about the omelettes they serve on the brunch menu. She's very opinionated and she lets everyone at the bar know what she thinks about everything.

“I WANT TO THROW A ROCK AT MY TV!” she screamed about South Park one morning. “IT'S A PAIN IN THE ASS, THAT'S WHAT IT IS!”

Even though South Park is one of my favorite shows, I wouldn't dare disagree with Maud on anything. You don't want to get on her bad side. Like the Mexicans for instance. She hates the Mexicans. Oh and George Bush. Man, she really hates that guy. She wants to kill him. And given the opportunity, I think she would.

Another person that she really hates is, “THAT FAT MAN THAT STINKS UP THE PLACE!”

It's true. there really is a fat man that comes in and stinks up the place. He's fucking fat. He's so fucking fat it's surprising he makes it to the bar. I guess “obese” would be a better word? Have you ever seen those ads in the back of porno mags of dudes fucking those enormous women? “Pick a Flab and Fuck It,” videos, that's what I call those videos. And that's what this guy looks like, one of those women from a “Pick a Flab and Fuck It” video. And it's no wonder he stinks: there's no way he can reach his nether regions with a bar of soap.

Ole Mr. Pickaflabandfuckit, however, carries himself like a fucking Royal. Much like the comic book guy on The Simpsons , Mr. Pickaflabandfuckit wears nothing but sweat suits and considers himself a cultured scholar and an expert on a variety of subjects. (None of which have anything to do with personal hygiene, apparently.) He's an expert on food and wine, naturally. He knows his booze. He also claims to translate ancient Germanic dramas into English. And I believe he as an ardent collector of vinyl records? Not sure on the last one.

But back to the flabs.

One day after he had left, but his perfume remained, Tania and I began pondering the great flabs of skin that were hanging off his body. Like, what do you do with those fucking things? Most people have, you know, a couple of arms and legs protruding off of their trunk, and let's not forget the head of course, but Mr. Pickaflabandfuckit has appendages hanging off his arms, his butt, his gut, his legs even appear to be sprouting more legs. They're like organs and limbs that were previously unknown to science.

“If I had that shit hanging off of me,” Tania said, “like if I had big ole flabs like that, I'd get tattoos under them.”

Oh my did we have a laugh over that one. Granted we were very drunk and the-fat-man-that-stinks-up-the-place's dignity was not taken into consideration.

“Oh and I know the perfect thing to get tattooed down there,” I said. I took out my moleskine notebook and begin drawing a picture of a litter of kittens just awakening from a nap. “You get a picture of a bunch of kittens waking up from a nap. Then when someone is talking really loud around you, or someone keeps interrupting you, you go, ‘SHHHH! You're going to wake up the kitties.' Then you gingerly lift up the flab that covers your kitty tattoo and you go, ‘Oh great! Goddammit, you fucking woke them up!'”

I know it's not that funny, but at the time we practically fell out of our stools because we were laughing so hard. And I still love the idea so much that I really want to see it made a reality. I'm willing to go so far as to pay someone:

If you, or someone you know, is of such girth that someone could grab a flab on your body and fuck it, and you are willing to get my sleeping kitty picture tattooed beneath one of your flabs, I will pay you $500.

All interested parties can contact me at dave@thefuturemagazine.com. But do it quietly, the kitties are sleeping right now.