At that point I’m trying to find a way out. What would Glenn Danzig do?
I know this because the manager was slow and didn’t realize I had already stuffed the underwear down my shirt.
I can’t waste any more Danzig nights on bad dates.
I know it’s him. My hips vibrate! They—scout’s honor—they vibrate like the ring on a Hobbit finger calling to the Nazgul. They know their master is near.
So we stand—I pantsless as a Pooh bear—Glenn Danzig swollen as Marlon Brando, pale as an oyster, completely bare before me—all artificial light gone, all street traffic silenced—in only the glow of the moon and the hum of the mini mart’s HVAC.
All men are less than men before Glenn Danzig’s manhood.
Joe Johnson emerges as a power-house storyteller. Thank you, Joe!
