Turkey Jerky

Dyan Cannon sat next to me at a Lakers game a couple of years ago.

We exchanged awkward pleasantries, and pretty much ignored each other for the first half.

Then she ordered a dog with the works.

I had money on the game, and was trying to focus on the ten mongrel men in front of me holding my Lake Powell cottage in their giant hands.

But every time she took a bite of that hot dog, her waddle jiggled a bit, and mustard and relish was running down her neck.

I tried not to stare, and instead pretended I was looking around for a vendor. Wasabi peas, maybe, or some edamame.

But it was really an excuse to watch condiments flow down that gorgeous turkey flap.

When she finished, I was sweating and shaking - I grabbed her by the shoulders and began sucking and chewing at her neck like it was corn-on-the-cob at a state fair.

She passed out briefly. I wiped some Purel above her lip like a mustache.

When she came to, we both had a good laugh.

I think I got about $450 from her purse.
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