To the gentleman I met in the high street of Red Canyon, Montana, in the early hours of the 27th of August. (Yes you sir, you know who you are, 7 ‘ 2”, ruddy complexion, full beard, Oshkosh biballs marinated in bull semen).
I would like to offer my sincere apologies, from a safe distance of several thousand miles.
It was a complete surprise to me.
I’d simply stepped into the bar for a few drinks, the Margharitas were not on the original agenda. Neither was staying until 2 am, so when the young lady offered to walk me back to my Motel I was grateful for her help. I was a little unsteady on my feet and it was a strange town, which is why we were walking arm in arm. The reason that we were laughing is quite innocent too, she asked me if I knew anything about the stars, and I was very close to convincing her that if you look really, really hard you can see Orion’s schlong, dangling at right angles to his belt.
So when you crashed up the pavement in your truck, clipping the back of my head en route with the wing mirror I was a little disoriented. I’m sorry if I looked stupid. And of course when you leapt down from the truck and shouted “thasmawifebudi”, you’ll forgive me if I didn’t at first register what it was that you seemed to be trying so urgently to convey.
When the penny finally dropped, “That’s-my-wife-buddy”, all I can say in my defence was, it was a complete surprise to me.
If you are reading this I’m sure that your good lady was only trying make sure that a tipsy stranger made it safely back to his lodging. There was no suggestion of improper conduct, and even if there were then I would be entirely to blame.
Oh, and I’m sorry I ran off, but when you reached back into the truck those stains on the seat of your overalls looked for all the world like fresh blood, (some trick of the moonlight no doubt), and I had a sudden urge to go to the toilet.