Normally, you don’t ever want to find yourself locked in the trunk of a car because it means one of the following things might happen to you: a) Stan is about to drive your ass into a lake or b) the trunk is going to open and you’re going to find John Travolta in a Billy Ray Cyrus wig staring back at you. But this is an exception. Well, another exception is if the trunk contained an unlimited supply of Rocky Road candy bars and a TV that plays Central Park West on a loop. But this is an exception above the exception!
The Sun says that Chelsy Davy is once again trying to put out the flames on Prince Hot Ginge’s crotch with her poon and they recently tried to be slick when they left a night club in London at 4 in the morning. They didn’t want the paps to catch them together so they jumped in the trunk of a Jaguar. One witness who didn’t pull out a camera phone because they were momentarily hypnotized by the seductive flame dancers shooting out of Prince Hot Ginge’s head said this, “It was bizarre. The boot was popped open before the pair emerged. Neither seemed the worse the wear for drink when they climbed in and they acted as if it was the most normal thing.”
How is this bizarre? Who wouldn’t get into a trunk with Prince Hot Ginge. If PHG asked me to escort him into a closet full of CROCS, I’d take a holy water bath and follow his lead. If PHG asked me to wear a yarmulke and hold his hand as we stroll into a brunch co-hosted by Mel Gibson and Vanilla Gorilla, I’d say “Shalom!” and make it happen. I’d do whatever he asked. If he wants to be the jack and wants me to be the spare tire, into the trunk we go! It’s a good thing I know how to make a lubed condom out of coolant, pages from a Thomas Guide (even cars in Britain have a stupid ass Thomas Guide in their trunks), and the rust on a flashlight battery. They don’t call me the MacGyver of gay sex for nothing.