It was back in the good ol’ days. The salad years. It was a time before any real life seriousness. It was the time of Melrose Gulfman.

Ah, yes, Melrose Gulfman.

The G-man (not to be confused with G-Rob) was one of our running sbo buddies for a long time. He was an eclectic guy who could pound a twelve-pack, officiate the Drunk Olympics, then surprise you by waxing poetic abuot the relative softness and variety of pillows at Bed, Bath, and Beyond.

We had a few songs about the G-man. My favorite was a little blues number titled, “The G-Man is an Ass Man.” Which he was. As they say, it’s funny because it’s true.

Now, Melrose Gulfman.

Back in the day before Gulfman died (he didn’t actually die but fell into a very deep pit and got mired in marriage and suburbia, never to be heard from again), he lived in a little middle-rent apartment complex in the middle of town. It was a refuge for the rest of us married types who needed some place where we could go, watch TV, and slip into the single life every once in a while. Occasionally, we’d take the day off work, go to Melrose Gulfman, and just hang out.

We called it Melrose Gulfman because the stories that surrounded his little apartment were better than any primetime soap opera. Our personal favorite were the smoked-up, drunken girls who lived across the breezeway. The cast at the girls’ place was always changing, but one of the girls always remained the same. She was the girl who would come over in her Victoria’s Secret hip-length nightgown to hang out. She was the girl who would be getting ready go out, come over wearing nothing but a pair of blue jeans (her hands covering the other parts) to see if we liked the way the jeans fit.

Fun times.

So, fun, in fact, it made us all sad the day we realized she was a rabid, yet secret, racist.

We were all chilling, making fun of the G-Man’s stolen candy machines, throwing around the stuffed football, and finishing off Gulfman’s 12 or 13 beers (he always knew within one the number of beers he had in his fridge). This girl came over, sat down, and started chatting. Then she did it.

She dropped the n-word.

We all sort of looked around like, “Well, what the hell is that all about? Maybe she’ll take her pants off.”

And then she did it again. The n-word. Not the pants.

The fun drained out of the room. We boys were tolerant types with patience for just about any form of social dysfunction. Racism, however, we didn’t tolerate.

We all tried to change the subject, cut her off, get her to just stop talking. No good. She was deep in her own high and was babbling about nothing, but making us all sort of uncomfortable.

It seemed nothing would shut her up. So, I stepped out of my “normally not so profane around women” personality. I looked her straight in the eye, held my hands fairly wide, and said:

“My c*ck is THIS big.”

Since that time, that phrase has become the catch-phrase for any time we want someone to shut up or change the subject. I had to break it out again when my half-Jewish buddy and I ended up sitting with a hot aerobics instructor at the G-Spot (not to be confused with G-man, or G-Rob). When the night was over, the girl was forever known as Anti-Semite Sheryl.

What does this have to do with anything? Well, little, really.

Nonetheless, I’d like to offer up a hearty “my c*ck is THIS big” right now.

After all, the WBPT convention begins in 23 days.

I fell asleep thinking about it last night.