Well, Tacoma, this is certainly a first. Every week you turn to this section of the Weekly Volcano to find the booze soaked thoughts of my partner till death do us part — Bobble Tiki.

But this week things are different. This week, as Bret Michaels prepares to invade the Emerald Queen Casino for a sold out show Friday, June 20, and area media outlets prepare to pump out pop culture primed, diarrhea-style content about the Poison frontman turned reality show codpiece, Mrs. Tiki thought she’d jump into the action. If papers are going to be filling their pages with puff garbage about Bret Michaels, Mrs. Tiki might as well get a piece of that sexy hair spray pie. This is the perfect week for Mrs. Tiki to take the reigns of her husband’s questionable column and share with the Weekly Volcano her deepest, darkest, and naughtiest Bret Michaels fantasy.

Whether you like it or not, that’s the plan. Mrs. Tiki bought Bobble Tiki an extra large box of wine at Costco this afternoon, and there’s no going back. He’s passed out, and Mrs. Tiki’s in charge this week. What follows is a reoccurring fantasy that’s been rocking Mrs. Tiki’s imaginary world since early 1988.

He decided to put the top down. Bret was like that. Whenever he and Mrs. Tiki were cruising through the countryside on brisk autumn afternoons, Bret always put the top down. That’s one of the reasons he bought the VW Rabbit, after all. Mrs. Tiki loved that about Bret Michaels.

With the top down, Bret’s hair began to fly everywhere, slapping Mrs. Tiki in the face. Mrs. Tiki wasn’t sure why Bret always made her ride in back, especially because it was always just the two of them, but Mrs. Tiki wasn’t the type of lover to ask questions about why Bret Michaels does something. Mrs. Tiki accepted Bret Michaels. Bret loved that about Mrs. Tiki.

As the sun began to set and the evening became quiet, Bret Michaels pulled over his magenta VW Rabbit convertible. Turning around so he could look Mrs. Tiki in the eyes, and placing the same hand on Mrs. Tiki’s thigh that had bitch smacked C.C. Deville so may times, Bret spoke:

“Do you have any ChapStick?” he asked Mrs. Tiki.

“Of course I do, Bret. Of course I do. I love you and respect you. And I love the way your male genitalia is so obviously protruding from your acid washed jeans. I love everything about you, Bret Michaels, and you can use my ChapStick whenever you need to,” Mrs. Tiki said, batting her eyes a little and secretly hoping the wind had popped a button on her blouse and exposed a peek of Tiki cleavage.

“Thanks, babe,” Bret replied. “By the way, why are you wearing a blouse?”

“No reason.”

“Last time your boobs fell out, remember?”

“Yes.”

“As long as you remember.”

“I do, Bret. How could I forget?”

“I don’t know. I can’t,” Bret said, applying the strawberry flavored ChapStick to his lips and looking at Mrs. Tiki in the rearview mirror.

“Oh, Bret,” Mrs. Tiki sighed. “Of all the boobs you’ve seen, across this great land — the many, many racks that have been proudly displayed to you by groupies at concerts the world over — what makes you think I’d believe you’d remember my boobs?”

“You got the birthmark that looks like Walter Cronkite.”

As he said “Cronkite,” Bret turned around and once again faced Mrs. Tiki. His hand brushed through her Tiki hair and she felt his other paw unbuttoning her new pleated jeans. When Bret Michaels kissed Mrs. Tiki, it tasted like she was kissing herself — thanks to the ChapStick. In no time a shirtless Bret Michaels was on top of Mrs. Tiki, as if he owned the back seat of that Rabbit. Sweat poured from Bret Michaels’ brow and it smelled like hairspray. Ecstasy filled Mrs. Tiki’s body, and as Bret Michaels worked he slowly hummed “Every Rose has its Thorn.” Bret Michaels always hummed “Every Rose has its Thorn” when he made love to Mrs. Tiki.

If a special lady in attendance at Bret Michaels’ sold out Emerald Queen Casino show this Friday is lucky, maybe they’ll get to live Mrs. Tiki’s fantasy — which now all of Volcano Land is privy to. That is, assuming Bret really does drive a magenta VW Rabbit.

Just like her husband, Mrs. Tiki doesn’t give a hoot what you do this week because she doesn’t even know you. Unless you can explain to Mrs. Tiki how Bobble Tiki can consistently leave the toilet seat up even after 12 years of hearing Mrs. Tiki ask him not to, well, Mrs. Tiki is pretty sure she doesn’t need to meet you. Check out www.weeklyvolcanospew.com for all your South Sound blogosphere needs and consider that good enough. At least Bobble Tiki doesn’t pee on your bathroom floor.

[Emerald Queen Casino, Friday, June 20, 8:30 p.m., sold out, 2024 E. 24th St., Tacoma, 253.383.1572]