Listen, I know my fanbase probably includes a few young people, so I'll try to keep the cursing to a minimum -- the last couple of days have been an adventure, an adventure most easily comparable to a steaming, piss-coated shitball, ever-expanding as it rolls down a mountain of garbage...leading inevitably to a puddle of frothy ball-sweat. And it all began with a wink.
I like to hang around a pub called The Gurkin & The Olive -- anyone with their finger on the pulse of this city does. Especially on Saturday nights.
So I roll in there all dolled up -- we're talking a red scarf, black rubber zipper-vest, the tightest red jeans....you know how tough it is to find a nice pair of red jeans these days? Anyways, I'm stylin'. I'm maxin'. I'm Liberace.
I'm by myself -- I don't run with friends too often -- you know what I say: the only friends I roll with are fry ends. Get it? Like French Fries -- Fri-ends. This is a serious story, I told myself I'd stay away from the jokes -- but I couldn't help injecting a little comedy pre-relief.
There's this set of tits at the bar with a five-star ass. And he's got this girl with him. Pretty little thing. When I say 'pretty little', I mean 'very small'. As in dwarf-like. As in 'my mom smoked when she was pregnant with me' small. Something like that. Anyways, beside them was this brunette in a tight sweater. She looked back at me over her shoulder and winked. I swear she did. Sure, after the wink she proceeded to rub at her eye as if something was irritating it. She may have even removed a contact lense, inspected it in the light, and replaced it....but it was all part of the game. I moved in.
"Excuse me, is this seat taken?" I asked, nostrils flared.
She didn't reply. That's fine. I always have a back-up plan.
"I was referring to your ass," I smirked. "But I guess calling your ass a 'seat' is a little old-fashioned...but I'm an old-fashioned guy..."
I bellied up to the bar. "...which means I'm buying the drinks."
I ordered her five shots of sambuca and headed to the bathroom to drop a few coins into the condom dispenser. When I got back, I balked -- she hadn't touched a drop. Some chicks don't realize that the engine runs smoother with a little lube. I goosed her. The way chicks like it.
She whirled around. "Listen, I'm hitched -- fuck off, OK?"
I struggled, for just a moment, but recovered, ala Danny. "Hey, sorry babe, the switch broke -- now I can only fuck on and on and on-"
And that's when she hit me with the sambuca, right in the face. Five times. The music died, the bar went silent. All bleary eyes were on me. It was time to pull an ace.
"You can't douse a flame that burns this bright," I shoved a booze-soaked cigarette in my mouth. "Not unless you've got a hose with a big spout. Like I do."
I didn't get to hear her response. I lit the cigarette. And burst into flames. Fucking sambuca.
Anyways, the plus side is that one of the ambulance drivers was a chick, and because she had to use mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and check me for vitals, it was kind of like knockin' boots (I picked that term up on BET).
Anyhow, I've spent the last couple of days strapped to my bed envisioning tiny, faceless men crawling out of my bellybutton -- that's blinding pain for you. I apologize for the lack of updates. I can promise you a lot more now that my fingers have shrunken from sausages to, well, sub-sausage size. Slightly easier to type.
Until next time, DC out.