Every day as I stroll through town to my office I see you; lounging idly against the door jamb, running your slick pink tongues along a sugary glazed doughnut, or walking around shirtless in 46' weather whipping towels at each other like it's a cut-rate porn version of "Varsity Blues". Apparently your antics can not be viewed as lacivious if you occasionally save lives.
Mother Mary and the Sweet Baby Jeebus know I have tried to ignore you as I pass by, averting my eyes from the sight of your skin-tight white tees, and the way you spray each other with hoses and slide down the poles in slow-motion.*
*OK, maybe I'm imagining the last two
But heaven help me, I am only human and firefighters make my toes curl like a sloth. I don't blame you for your perky buttocks and perfectly rounded biceps, nor do I begrudge you the right to parade yourself in front of horny middle-aged women such as myself for aggrandization. Believe me, if I thought it would get an approving glance I'd be the first one to grab a helmet and spread-eagle on top of the firetruck like Tawny Kitaen in a Whitesnake video. Sadly, I do not believe it would have the desired effect so I must therefore live vicariously through you.
My friend Max likes to give me a hard time saying "If they were women you'd be giving me crap for checking them out. Just 'cuz those guys are hot doesn't give you the right to stare at them." I understand his argument, but then why is the front of the fire station made of glass? It's just a large, lovely display case where you are all lined up like jewelled pendants at Tiffany's. It's like you are my own Evolution of Man exhibit at the Portland Art Museum, only without the expensive gift shop and bad parking.
Now I know, I know. . .your lives aren't always like an episode of "Rescue Me". I'm sure there is a lot of downtime, a lot of paperwork, a lot of marathon workout sessions. . .your abdominal muscles glistening with sweat as you pump out four more reps before starting your dead-lifts; your perfect gluts pumping rhythmically as you. . .wait, where was I? Oh yeah. . .a lot of boring clerical work, but even your firefighter lingo is sexy. Trust me, any time you want to 'dispatch' your 'cherry-picker' on my 'bushfire' then I guarantee there will be no 'friction loss' in my 'hot zone'
I realize that this missive may seem a bit aggressive and intrusive, but keep in mind that as a government employee, I pay your salary. And as I have neither thrown my cat up a tree nor ignited my living room with a wayward Bath & Body Works candle I must say that I have not seen an adequate return on my investment. Therefore I request the following:
1) Far more shirtless afternoons of you soaping your trucks. . .and I don't mean that euphemistically.
2) Each Wednesday you must sing me Peruvian ballads while tweezing my eyebrows with your non-dominant hand.
3) Every month that my home does NOT burst into flames you tithe one-tenth of your paycheck to pay my bill at H&M.
4) One word: Speedos.
I see no reason why we can't reach an understanding on this. Please feel free to call me at 503-555-1234 if you have any questions. Seriously. 503-555-1234. Even if you don't have questions. . .even if you just want to grab a cup of coffee, or have a chat, or need help oiling your valves. 503-555-1234. I'm sure that if we can just meet halfway on this then we'll someday look back on my
P.S.: That totally was NOT me tapping on the window the other day wildly gesticulating at your soot-smudged faces while singing 'Burnin Down The House'. I swear. But if you don't believe me you can call to confirm: 503-555-1234