G-Dawg: The Kissin' Bandit

Today, around 11:50 AM, Bisq's 31 year-old cousin Grant, a.k.a G-Dawg, arrived at our doorstep with a six pack of Miller Lite and a cracked-open bottle of Diet Pepsi in hand. It's a rare occasion when G-Dawg comes to visit us on our own turf - maybe once per decade. You can't count the other miscellaneous visits that occur in between which take place at painful family pow-wows while I'm under considerable duress, being forced to eat desserts laced with Splenda and being drowned in syrupy small talk. It's so hard to get down to brass tacks when you're surrounded by a bunch of hyper kindergarten teachers, peanut-butter fudge, ladies in light blue polyester leisure suits and no alcohol.

Cousin G-Dawg flies planes and helicopters for Customs and Border Protection, a department under Homeland Security, and has done so for the last 9 years. He attends an annual three-day helicopter training in nearby Orange County, and that was the reason for the visit. He's Biscuit's only good-looking relative. He gets paid to shoot guns, fly planes and lift weights. He's possibly the most self-actualized person I've ever known, next to Oprah. He's a fine mixture of Bill Clinton and Forrest Gump: a smooth operator disguised as country pie. He was, of course, a high school football star in his backwoods Louisiana town, along with being an altar boy (more on the Catholicism later). His good looks are of the all-American-Varsity-Top-Gun variety. Plus, he's got the heavy duty Southern accent and is so polite that he opens the car door for the (female) driver in even the tightest of parking spaces. It really threw me off when we were both walking to the driver's side door with a mission. He wears a snug-fitting gold chain (which I've always been a sucker for) with a St. Mary pendant. Today, he donned an LSU ball cap, a polo shirt and some almost trendy jeans with a wide enough boot-cut leg to accommodate the Glock strapped to his ankle. His year-round tan is part of the job description, I'm sure.
Sexually, he's as screwed up as can be. At Bisq's bachelor party, he was throwing C-spots at the strippers so that they would expose Bisq's weenie. That's kinda...different. Mix that with the Catholicism and you've got yourself one twasted dude - so twasted that he goes to confession only at churches where he won't know a soul. When he confesses to his own priest, he'll say something like, "Well, I have been swearing an awful lot." He saves the good stuff for anonymous priests in far-away towns. There's a very real possibility that he'll be headed to a strange confessional in Costa Mesa before he catches his 6AM plane out of John Wayne Airport tomorrow. More on this later.

Shortly after his arrival, we went out to lunch and listened to all the tales of hot single gun-slinging southern pilots with badges. Good stuff. Much debate has ensued between the husband and I as to whether or not G-Dawg is a virgin. Remember, he is a devoutly guilt-ridden Catholic and has made allusions in recent years to holding out for the future Mrs. G. Dawg. And, as if he wasn't already crazy as a bag of mice, they have this uncle...let's call him Uncle Hugh, who is constantly dangling prosti...I mean escorts and wads of casino cash in front of him. The word on the street is that G.Dawg will do "everything BUT."
After lunch, I took him on an outing to Trader Joe's. I have to admit that being with G-Dawg makes me want someone to start some shit. On his badge, it states that its bearer is entitled to make arrests, conduct seizures, shoot your ass - whatever he's up for. While shopping for groceries, we had a buggy disappear with a few items in it that we had not yet purchased. I told G-Dawg about this and basically the two of us divided the store in half in order to chase down the outlaw with our cart. We were on a mission, and I saw that LSU cap bobbing down the supplements aisle out of the corner of my good eye. I felt like I was taking part in my first sting operation. Of course, I wasn't armed with anything more than some double-Ds and my keyless entry unit for my Altima. I figured G-Dawg would catch the "criminal" and conduct some border patrol-style seizure or shake-down. About 8 years ago, I had him handcuff me in my kitchen in Santa Fe. He could only get better with time. He's got moves.
Long story short, I found the buggy. No harm, no foul. G-Dawg found another buggy which he thought was ours and began to lay claim to it. It all ended with an "Aw man, mah baaad." I think he tries to conserve the searches and seizures for the border. It's tough being the guy with the guns, the badge and heart of gold!

At 6 PM he joined us on our evening walk to Bellevue Park and an idea came to me - wouldn't it be fun to watch G-Dawg go bonkers for my saucy red-headed upstairs neighbor? She's single, wears platform shoes and lives to Tango. At first, I thought she wouldn't go for him. She's somewhat artsy, part of that breed that goes to Argentina. Some grouches might view G-Dawg as a highly-paid, trigger-happy aviation cop from a small town. How hot is it to work for Homeland Security? Turns out, she's no grouch.
We waltzed upstairs only to find her and a few of her horny girlfriends lounging on pillows on the roof-top deck, uncorking bottles of everything from Champagne to Riesling. I had G-Dawg holding the baby as part of the plot to see if the girls were interested in more company. Within less than 20 minutes, he'd infiltrated the system, in spite of kicking over 2 wineglasses. My saucy neighbor was charmed by his country-ham accent and his faint resemblance to Matthew McConaughey. The girls were busy talking about sexy things in front of him whilst he slapped his knee and laughed goofily, flashing those pretty white teeth. This is his signature move. I was onto him, but the girls were eating it up; so much so that I left him up there to fend for himself. A little later, he came downstairs to tell us of the supreme pickle he was in: his plane back to Louisiana was leaving from Orange County at 6:00 AM. How would he manage partying all night with these 2 horny chicks and still make it home? "Maaann, it's fixin' to get ugly," he kept moaning. I believed it. This one roof-top chick, Felicity, mentioned the word "threesome,"which really got G-Dawg pumped up. I encouraged him to find a way to make it work. After all, flying down the interstate at 3:00 AM can't be much harder than shooting down a plane over the Gulf of Mexico.

Now it's Saturday and time for me to put this story to rest. I saw my red-headed neighbor this morning who told me that I could fix her up anytime. She spoke of the Dawg's sweetness and the smooches they exchanged around 1:30 AM. A perfect gentleman, she said. He didn't even try anything. Just a few minutes ago, when G-Dawg called to say thanks, he started the phone call off with a "HO-LEE COW!" and defined last night as a "wild time." The kissin' bandit does it again! I forgot to ask if he made it to a confessional this morning. After all, he claims that priests out here in California hear it all. No doubt, maaannn.