I Swear We’re Not Perverts…We Just Want To WATCH Perverts


I have to preface these texts by telling you that Ryan and I have a running joke about Anthem, this very Stepford-esque suburban “planned community”, that lies just north of Phoenix.  He claims he heard a rumor about an underground swinger’s scene that goes on up there, where reportedly, the swingers identify themselves to each other by placing purple rocks in their yards.

Ryan: Damn it!  I was up in Anthem for that service, and I didn’t get a chance to look around.

Me: You mean that, while on your way to a FUNERAL, you didn’t try and track down some swinger-sign?  What’s wrong with you!?

Ryan: We could always go back this weekend.  That’s a fun date, isn’t it?

Me: Me, you, some flashlights…good times. What do we do if we find any?

Ryan: “I’m sorry, but we couldn’t help noticing your rocks.  We were wondering how you get them off?”

Me: “No, we don’t want to join…nice cold sore, by the way, but we’d like to observe from a safe distance.  Outside the ‘Splash Zone’, if you will…”

Ryan: “Do you provide tarps?  Oh, no, nevermind, we have rain panchos…that’ll do.”

Me: Good thing I keep those in my car.

Ryan: Yeah, we don’t want anything to get stained.

Me: LIKE OUR SOULS!  Bring that vial of holy water I saw in your kitchen.

Ryan: Pretty sure that turns to vinegar the moment it crosses a swinger threshold.

Me: So…Saturday?

Ryan: Sounds good.  Bring galoshes.