The March 2003 Silver Clitorides Awards Presentation:

Cue the music.

It was a hot and sultry night. The kind of night that sucked away your ice cream, banana, and hot fudge, and left you holding your nuts. I had decided to split and go to La Taverna for some cold brews and hot broads. Then she walked in.

I knew she was trouble the moment the door opened. She stood there with her red hair, looking for all the world like a strawberry lollipop. You know the kind; an all day sucker that leaves your lips and tongue all red and sticky and gives you a buzz that lasts until the next morning, even though you petered out the night before.

She sashayed up to my desk, undulating like a garden hose with the nozzle wide open and plenty of pressure in the water main. Like I said, Trouble. That starts with T and that rhymes with P. I needed to take one, so I crossed my legs and waited for her to speak.

I didn't wait long. She said, "You Gary Jordan?"

I didn't keep her in suspense. "Me Gary Jordan. You Jane?"

The joke was wasted on her. She pursed her lips in annoyance. I'm a guy; I don't do purses, so I walleted my lips right back at her. She beetled her eyebrows; I rolling stoned mine. Her eyes shot daggers at me. My eyes parried en forte.

"Are you going to keep this up all night?" she asked with a snarl that would curdle milk still in the saber-tooth lioness.

"At my age, I'm happy if I can keep anything up all night," I replied with a grunt that would've make a Neanderthal come running with a "Where da Cro-Magnon chicks?" look on his face.

She leaned over my desk. Fortitously... I mean, fortuitously, that gave me a gander at her melons. Big casabas these were, with nipples like thumb-sized erasers standing sentry over the silver dollar portals of Fort Guernsey, the Federal Milk Depository. Now I knew why, from the time we're babies, we guys think of only one thing: food.

"Look," she said, even though it was pretty obvious I already was, "I'm just here to deliver a message."

"Fine," I said, because they were. "Who's it from?"

It's from..." She paused melodramatically, which was okay by me because I was feeling dramatically mellow at that point. Or those points. Sadly, from my perspective, she ended the pause by straightening up, an act that must have strained a back muscle that I'd have been happy to massage for her for a day or two. She finally finished (and I was pretty close myself by then), "...the Muse."

Her words sank into my brain like two casaba melons settling into a loose tank top, jiggling around for a brief moment like cherry gelatin from round-bottomed bowls. Meaning strained against my grey cells like a couple of tiny cock shaped sentries, setting up tents... I shook my head. "Let me have it."

I had to settle for the message, but I was treated to a rear view as she glided out the door: Like two firm mel... never mind. Thats a cliche for another day - I already milked the other for all it was worth. I unfolded the message and read:

Gary~

If you don't knock off this half-assed "Mike Hammer" parody and announce the winner of the Silver Clitorides Award for the best story of March, 2003, I'm going to turn you into toilet paper in a public rest room in Tijuana during tourist season.

Love, your Muse

The Muse doesn't make idle threats; my life unrolled before my eyes, and I realized I'd have to be three sheets to the wind to ignore her. Charmin' idea, that. Maybe later. I cleared my throat.

"The winners of the Silver Clitorides Award for the best story of March, 2003 are The Sunstroke Cure by Oosh and Walking the Dog by Smilodon."

"Congratulations, Oosh! Congratulations, Smilodon! And congratulations to all of the excellent finalists and nominees."