by Bart Whiteman
posted January 22, 2005
There I was at the second happy hour of the day, dubbed the “Unhappy Hour” by the regular patrons (a singularly morbid group), at the local watering hole and working on my fourth rusty nail 2-for-1, when suddenly I felt an unannounced hand on my knee. I looked to my right and realized the hand belonged to a famous, now infamous, personage. Or would “spongenage” be more correct? I found myself gazing into the eyes of none other than Sponge Bob himself.
Sponge Bob muttered something about how I was “cute” and that he’d “like to make my acquaintance.”
I knew this wasn’t going to go very far right away. Square pants have never done much for me. I made a graceful exit after congratulating Bob on the success of his recent movie and headed out into the chill of the winter evening. I drove home in the darkness at ten miles above the legal speed limit.
In the safety of my own den I breathed a sigh of heavy relief realizing that I had almost been picked up by a randy, water-drenched sponge. Thankfully, I had been fore-warned by the Religious Right, the ever-vigilant watchdogs of our national propriety. They had noticed something a little kinky and obvious in Sponge Bob’s choice of fresh pineapple décor for his under the sea home. It didn’t take much time to put six and nine together after that. <snip>
http://www.chattanoogan.com/articles/article_61463.asp