So I'm getting in the cab for the airport when the driver, handling my suitcase, jokes that I must want to go to one of the legal brothels outside of town. I tell him no, I want to go to American Airlines, which offers many of the same services. As he hops behind the wheel, he declares, "Yeah, I don't need those places, either," and he then proceeds to spend the entire ride describing to me the incredible sex life he and his "hot" girl friend enjoy — ten-hour marathons involving every conceivable position and orifice. He meticulously details several and the more I try to change the subject, the more it refuses to change. I realize that the brothel line is probably one he must use with every lone male passenger, so he can then segue to the topic he's determined to gab about.
He laments that he doesn't have his usual photos of his "volcanic chick" (that was the term) along to show me, but assures me she is a ringer for Sheena Easton. "You seen her lately?" he asks. I tell him no, which is a mistake, for he begins trying to catch up with other cabs that display advertising signs for Sheena Easton's show. This is so I can see just how hot Sheena — and therefore, his girl friend — are.
At the end of the ride, as I'm paying the fare, he's upset that we never caught a glimpse of Ms. Easton. "I wanted to show you what my lady looks like," he says. I assure him that there'll be a Sheena Easton billboard somewhere in the airport and that I'll pause to study it so I can, indirectly, fathom how unbelievably hot the Volcanic Chick is.
Just then, a cab pulls up with a big picture of Sheryl Crow on it and — so help me — the cabbie says, "Well, my girl friend looks a lot like her, too."