The Measure of a Man

Latigo Flint would be lying if he said he didn't regret a number of the flirtation choices he's made in the past. But if Latigo Flint could take just one back, it would definitely be my boast yesterday to the cute Starbucks cashier that I have a single, two-foot long chest hair.

I knew almost immediately that it was a mistake. The tattooed, rock drummer-looking gentleman behind me in line made little effort to conceal his harsh, braying laughter. (I made a mental note to pistol whip him later.) The cute Starbucks cashier stared past me at him, her eyes widening in appreciation. Tattooed, rock drummer-looking guys occasionally have that effect on girls.

"Well all right then, pard'ner!" She said it mockingly, not taking her eyes off the guy behind me. "Let's see your two-foot chest hair." Fresh guffaws from Tattoo Guy and she demurely giggled in response.

This was turning to absolute shit in one hell of a hurry. Not only had I just become a prop in a burgeoning romance between the woman I adored and a rock drummer-looking bastard, but I also don't have a two-foot long chest hair, never did. I was going to have to think fast to remedy this one.

"Ma'am that was wrong of me, I wasn't completely truthful just now. I actually don't have a single, two-foot long chest hair... Anymore, because see, the Portuguese National Soccer Team recently learned of its existence and thought it would bring them luck. They hired a ninja to steal it. I shot that ninja but not before his razor sharp katana sliced off the side of my nipple from which sprouted the folic marvel."

I pointed over my shoulder at the rock-drummer looking guy. "And he's got genital warts!"

What a disappointing turn of events. A Squinty-eyed Gunslinger's word is his bond. Honesty was the measure of a man in the glorious American Old West, and here I had thrice lied in the span of half a minute just to try to win the affection of a surly city girl who has made her low opinion of me abundantly clear on a number of occasions. Ashamed of myself I turned and stumbled for the door. I drank through the night and slept through the day.

I awoke shirtless, an empty Rogaine bottle in my hand and some sort of sticky mess all over my chest.

Now please don't think Latigo Flint hasn't learned his lesson - Because I have... sorta. It's just that, hot-dang, a couple of these look a mite longer than I remember, especially that little cluster of three or four near my right nipple.