Pinko Disco Duck

While I'm in a confessional mood, I may as well tell about my greatest sin against "coolness": Yes; I once owned a leisure suit. Oh god, this is terrible just to remember. My only defense is that I was a victim of circumstances. It was Carolyn's doings; honest it was! I had never owned a suit of any kind in my entire hillbilly life and was perfectly happy being naked of such finery. This all began one Friday night several years before disco became the scourge of rock & rollers and when leisure suits had just been introduced as being the hip attire of smooth movers and shakers. I came dragging in home from a week's work in Parkersburg, West Virginia carrying my usual sack of dirty clothes and a hardon. Just as I was preparing for bed, my loving spouse said in her sweetest voice, "I bought you something". Not unusual; we both often bought each other gifts while we were parted by necessity. While I was anxious to get caught up on my loving and further hone my skills at such, she went to the closet and brought out a pink leisure suit. Yep; PINK! Well, not exactly pink, but a burgundy-reddish-pinkish affair that looked very pink to a pair of eyes that were yearning to see some fuzzy pink, but not from out of the closet. "Do you like it?" she asked. The material was cotton, corduroy cotton with a brushed look and feel on the outside. "I ain't wearing that!" "Why; what's wrong with it?" "It's fucking pink!" "It's not pink, it's burgundy." "Right now all I see is pink and it ain't the pink I want to see!" "This shirt is pink," she said as she pulled it from the closet, "and the coat and pants are burgundy." "Oh hell no; you've got another think-think coming if you have any idea that I'll wear a pink shirt along with a pink suit; you better have your receipt for this stuff 'cause I wouldn't be caught dead in it!" The next evening I slunk my pink ass into a movie theatre with my proud and smiling wife on my arm while my two kids giggled their damn little heads off. I didn't have any sex that weekend; for some reason my desire simply drooped away. Funny thing, after being worn and cleaned a few times, the suit darkened to where it did look burgundy and I wound up wearing it for several years. No such luck with the pink shirt, though, but one evening I accidentally dripped both ketchup and mustard down the front of it and I never again saw it after that night. The story doesn't end there; later in the 70's decade when disco was killing off every standard of musical decency the world had ever known, Carolyn bought me another shirt to go with the pink-cum-burgundy suit. It was a silky looking and feeling thing with big, dark burgundy twirls designed into it, and the collar was wide enough to make schooner sails. I was forced to wear the shirt a couple of times, but it somehow became snagged on something and a big rip appeared in the front. Now I suspect you want me to say there are photos floating around of myself while donning the pink garb. Unfortunately, there are and it is slightly possible my dear, sweet, and understanding friend Alice may have one or more of them. I know as a good friend that she would never ever allow anything like that in her possession to find its way to the net so the remainder of you can get your perverted jollies at my expense. Don't even waste your time looking for them, Dear Alice; you probably do not have any of them anyway and if there is a God, he has wiped memories of ever seeing me in such an outfit from your memory.
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Have a colorful Tuesday, my children.
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