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don’t beat up old ladies.”
    “Tell me what happened,” Shep says.
    I’m about to try, but just then one of the girls comes in the kitchen for another drink. She’s wearing low-rider jeans and one of those teeny tiny t-shirts that barely covers her stomach. “Hey,” she says, smiling at us. “I’m Fergi.”
    “Nice to meet you,” I say.
    Teddy starts wiggling his ass. “What you gon' do with all that junk? All that junk inside your trunk? I'm a get, get, get, get, you drunk.”
    Of course he’s singing a Fergi song, trying to be funny.
    Shep slaps his own forehead in mock disgust.
    At first Fergi just stares at Teddy like he’s the lowest form of life she’s ever encountered. But then she begins dancing. “My hump, my hump, my lovely little lumps,” she sings.
    “That’s right!” Teddy shouts and puts up his hand for a high-five. She slaps his hand.
    “What do you want to drink?” Shep asks her.
    “I brought some Bicardi and Cokes.”
    He digs in the fridge and pulls her out one, and she promptly swigs from it. Fergi is actually hot, I realize. Nice ass, perky little tits, long brown hair, brown eyes, olive complexion. She looks a little like Kim Kardashian.
    “This party’s turning into quite the sausage fest,” she says.
    “Isn’t that how you like it?” Teddy says. “I hear you like a big old sausage for breakfast.”
    Fergi glances him up and down. “I get the feeling your working with a cocktail weenie. So, definitely not interested.”
    Teddy turns bright red. “Believe me, honey, I’ve got a damn kielbasa in my pants. You couldn’t handle it.”
    “If I had a dime for every little dick-having guy who talked smack about his huge penis, I’d be Donald Trump.” She turns and leaves the room.
    “Owned,” Shep guffaws. “She just served you like she was Roger Federer, bitch.”
    “She was right about that cocktail wienie shit, too.” I guzzle more beer.
    Teddy just shakes his head angrily.
    “Tell me what happened with your grandmother,” Shep says.
    “Fine.” And I start to tell him the story, beginning with her coming home from the market with her wounded finger, and ending with the brutal fight and her chasing us down my street as we drove away.
    Shep often can’t believe what he’s hearing, but Teddy Foreskin verifies as much of it as possible.
    By the end, Shep’s at a loss for words. “That’s some crazy shit, bro,” he says finally, slaps my shoulder. I’m thinking he might not quite buy my story. “You definitely need to get laid and try and get your mind off things,” he says.
    “Yeah.” Then I remember my other problem…and the itch comes back full force.
    I can barely restrain myself from scratching the shit out of my balls right in the kitchen.
    “I need to take a piss,” I lie.
    I quickly make my way to the bathroom. When I get there, Fergi is just coming out. “Hey,” she says, smiling at me. “Has anyone ever told you that you look a little like Robert Pattinson?”
    “I might have heard that before,” I say. The truth is, I have gotten that remark three or four times since Twilight came out. Strangely, only hammered chicks seem to see the resemblance. Every girl who told me that later had my cock lodged deep in her throat.
    “You’re kind of hot,” she says.
    “Thanks. I thought you looked a little like Kim Kardashian.”
    She makes a face. “Ugh. That chick is the worst.”
    “It’s not an insult.”
    “I know. I just personally hate her.” Fergi moves out of the doorway. “Anyway, enjoy your piss or shit or whatever you’re doing in there.”
    “Pissing. Just taking a piss.”
    “I bet you’re going to leave a big brown stain in that toilet,” Fergi cackles, stumbling away.
    Wow, she’s a weird chick. I go in the bathroom and lock the door. Then I quickly take my pants down and sit on the toilet. My rash looks positively ghastly. It’s almost purple now, and the zits and stuff are huge and wet, like blobs of tiny jellyfish