Have I ever mentioned what my husband does for a living? No, he’s not Mr. Dangle Shlong of the Nudist Colony. We’ll get to that guy in a minute. Bruce is in the commercial refrigeration business. His work takes him to all kinds of interesting places. It takes him to some boring places too, but I’m not here to talk about that. Let’s get down to the short and curlies of this post, shall we?
Commercial Refrigeration. It’s everywhere. Grocery stores, liquor stores, hospitals, bars, restaurants, warehouses and so on and so forth. There are small reach ins, huge walk ins, open air display coolers and of course, ice machines. Which brings us to how my husband ended up experiencing a nudist colony.
By the way, he assures me it is not the sexy hotness that most people think it is.
|This does not look comfortable|
It started something like this:
Bruce: My boss asked me if I would have a problem going to do a job at a nudist colony.
Me: Do a job at a nudist colony? That sounds dirty. I’m listening…..
Bruce: Yeah, he said that this place needed their ice machine fixed. I’m pretty sure he was just fucking with me.
Me: I’m sure he was. A nudist colony?…..Come on. He was totally fucking with you.
No, Internets, as it turns out, his boss was not fucking with him. He actually had to go to a nudist colony. How fabulous! Well, fabulous for me being the one to hear the story. Not fabulous for Bruce who had to try and be the total professional that he is while being surrounded by old man meat swingin’ and sweatin’ in the August heat. Not to mention the titties that were all around resembling fried eggs hanging from nails. Get what I’m saying here? Nudist colonies are apparently formed by groups of people who want to be naked around other people but really have no business actually being naked around other people. Centerfold material these people were not. Whatever. Just because one’s nakedness is a savage assault to your eyes doesn’t mean that they don’t deserve ice for their cool refreshing adult beverages, right?
Bruce is no prude. He’s there to do a job. Bruce is also very observant. As he’s in the kitchen area working on the aforementioned ice machine, he can’t help but wonder about health codes. I mean, there’s a lot of exposed skin in an area where food is being prepared. At this point, latex gloves on peoples’ hands is the least of your worries in regards to food safety. And perhaps that salad bar should have a sneeze guard for genitalia. Just sayin’.
Bruce is also a curious fellow. He wanted to know how one joins a nudist colony. So he asked. They have three rules, he reports to me.
1. No Cameras (sounds like a good rule)
2. Pass a background check showing that you have no sex crimes on your record. (due diligence. I like it)
3. When sitting, you must use your towel. (I am not liking the visuals in my head from imagining the furniture if this was not a rule)
The time eventually comes where Bruce needs to get paid for his work. Good luck finding someone in a nudist colony with a goddamn checkbook on them. Can’t you just imagine everyone patting their non existent chest and pants pockets, shrugging and looking back and forth at each other? No worries. Payment is on it’s way via Mr. Dangle Shlong, the guy who originally called for the ice machine repair. And he’s not naked!! Nope. He’s wearing gleaming white Reeboks, a Bluetooth and a fanny pack. No shit, Internets. Can you picture it???
So that, my friends, was my husband’s first (and only?) experience with a nudist colony. Next time let’s talk about when he’s had to work on broken coolers at morgues……