Cats, Dogs, Sex in the City, and a Band of Brothers

[Author’s note: the parts crossed out, were part of a dictated conversation from 2 separate authors notes. It also got really filthy and crude, so skip ahead to the uncrossed, boring parts.]

The bare minimum only sustains and postpones any progress in your life. That came to me in a daydream while I was on a mystical journey inside a Vons/Pavillions. (I was following someone.) Have you ever seen the movie, Once? It was a good movie but I couldn’t stop staring at the ginger lead character. It just struck me as strange for no reason. Then I thought about Cosmo Brown from Singing in the Rain. His character had pizzazz and charm and a great attitude, and was hilarious, but he was a ginger. He’d never be allowed to bang Kathy Seldon. Of course, I wouldn’t be allowed to bang Kathy Seldon either. (For those of you who don’t know, I’m not a bigot, I indiscriminately hate all races.)

Sometimes, I shock myself with 9volt batteries. Sometimes I shock myself when someone points out my race after I’d forgotten. I’m not even sure what-the-fuck race I actually am, and never could grasp how seriously some take it. I mean, I realize there are obstacles I’ve to jump over every now and then, but I’ve always had to do that. I’ll still never get to bang Kathy Seldon.

[Tell me one good reason why it’s important to classify by race and I’ll tell you it’s another reason why the human race is still a joke. Your footprints shall cease and your existence will be forgotten by the tick of time.] That’s probably what the Earth would say, and say it with a smoker’s cough.

I’m not like that. I’m nicer and more passive because I probably can’t kick you ass in a bar-fight. Not like Blue Mama Earth can with her Hurricane swag and believe me, that ain’t her only trick. IF you do manage to kick her ass, I’ll have been waiting with an empty beer bottle to less-confrontational-ly throw at the back of your head. So you wouldn’t see it coming or possibly wrestle it out of my hand. While you’re curtains are closed and the intermission music montage is playing, I’ll rudely talk shit about how you beat up a woman and how I defended her honor and win everyone on my side, and simultaneously distracting the patrons by bringing your limp body onto a stool next to me and buying you a beer. Hopefully no one will realize my cheapshotdickmove of throwing a bottle at the back of your head to end your tyranny. I’ll probably end up drinking your beer in the next ten minutes after the cloud of pointless aggression settles, and leave with the second prettiest girl you came with because I’m a simple man. She’ll probably have empathized with my performance of being a hero who fought smart, as opposed to have fought dirty. I will have become drunk enough to forgive her for being your friend, and fuck her mercilessly into a puddle of jelly or pudding of some kind for a hard 4 minutes.

(Again, I’m a simple man, aim too high and it might miss the sky. Where others feel inclined to impress, I say it ain’t the real me. If I’m not good enough, I’m okay with you cutting me from your cast and crew right then and there, before we take the two-month downward love spiral because I can’t keep up with all my lies and gradually revert back to my copacetic self because you have failed to inspire any changes in my life to better fit into a snug studio loft within your heart.)

4 minutes is the bar price she’ll pay for me to pound her little pink cigarette case with the fury of Apollo until it flattens into a black and blue Goodbye Kitty credit card, and baby, you best believe my tongue is going in that naughty little water park of hers and it’s thirstier than Dracula with a conscience. I’ll probably dig my shovel in her backyard too and try to say the exploding passion or whatever made me do it. Hopefully, this pink taco massacre takes place at her place so I’d be able to go through her things to find a memento. I’ll even learn a few things about her besides her name because I probably nodded to whatever sentences I found no substance in that came out of her mouth like music coming out of a shitty speaker in an elevator.

At her place, I’ll be able to slink out quietly in the middle of the night and walk home through the rained-on empty streets reflecting the city lights with a bluish hue from the pearl white full moon in the cloudless black sky.

If she’s owner to those butt dimples just above the waistline of those shamefully tight cock-ready jeans, I’ll ride her like a military dad. I’ll ride her anyway, because it’s a fucking free ticket to fuck like fucking lions, fucking Nala like a naughty slut, primal, raw, and claws baby! The poor bastard that rustles in the bushes that disrupts our fuck-ageddon, is going to get clawed into pieces! (Lionesses actually does the hunting, and the male just waits because he’s the man and still ready to bone down or eat glorious meats. If a safari jeep showed up, I think I’d be able to fuck it up, depending on it’s tranquilizer dart supply, my tolerance from to opiates as a fucking lion, and whether the guide is on his first week which the other guides should have warned about interrupting my bang time.)

I’ll probably have beer munchies and when the opportunity arises, I’ll fuck her and eat simultaneously until I’ve banged every organ out of her body. She better be good at screaming bloody murder in savage ecstasy, or good at faking it because I love a good performance. It tells my cock her cunt is hospitable and my cock’ll think, “it’s nice in here, I hope my master lets me blow a fat fucking load of spicy happy-sauce somewhere in, on, or around this place. Hile, Black Angus, Hile!”

4 minutes because it’s ultimately what one asks for when asking in a bar. Personally, I’ve never picked up women in a bar. [That I can recall.] The process itself dissuades me and the prize, the 4 minutes doesn’t present any reward worth a flying fuck of mine. I’m not a guy that high-fives my homies because I got a drunk little cock-gobbler to release my snake into her garden. There’s no thrill of the catch for me either because persuading a drunk chick to leave with an asshole is not a very difficult thing to do in L.A. It’s like kicking a kitten. All one has to do is omit the idea that this woman has ideas and opinions and feelings that are worth a damn on occasion, and make sure you seem decisive and in control of most aspects of your life while you flirt. Seem is the keyword, fellas, and you’ll be fucking her fooled meaningless flesh in no time. Oh, and make sure she’s had a few so she can omit the women’s lib thing and men are bastards mantra they sing at their tea parties, and mistake your cockiness for charm. Then high-five your ego, toast your glass of self-glory, and give yourself a wall-street applause because you’ve lowered the points on humanity’s stock.

Now, you say, “It’s survival,” and I’ll say, “I’ll toast to that! What kind of world are you surviving for again? Man, I was just in the bathroom, and this drunk dude was pissing in the urinal, got it a couple of times, and I’m pretty sure he fell in dick first at one point. He didn’t even wash his hands, and now he’s gonna go bang that random chick he left with. I’m sorry, what were you saying? Right, survival…”

Bitches, don’t think you’re innocent too. (I don’t mean bitches in derogatory way, I’m punching fellow cocks brutally, and I didn’t want you feeling left out without a cute pet-name.) Every time you let a cock take your castle, the cocks gather and cock-a-doodle-doo his glory, encouraging and inspiring other cocks to do the same. And they can, baby. My loves, my ladies, no matter how many times you’ve watched the episodes of Sex in the City (as I have, no joke) or ran from these raging cock-wielding assholes, an asshole will always find you. It’ll be your fault, because men don’t think, right? They react like dogs that hunt in packs and want your tasty treats. They follow suit of an alpha dog, and when he’s banging a bitch, the others will be banging soon too. Men follow the alpha in their packs, but these leaders have been in a moral decline. These men can’t find a woman’s love precious, and I’m sure the feeling is mutual.

Listen up boys. You stupid cocksuckers!

(I wanted to leave it at that cause it sounded cool and might win some women back.) Deep down, I do care about where our illegitimate children are raised. There are very few good guys left, the ones that mean it when they say, “how you doin’?” and they’ve become harder for the good bitches to find. It’s just as hard for these good pricks to find good bitches. We all know the drill when one of the boys is down for the count because a girl put him there, pick up a 24-pack of she’s a bitch and you can do better, and hit the town. If he’s really down in the dumps, the fifth of “you aren’t gonna remember shit in the morning because I love you man, Band of Brothers, no man left behind!”

All the while, she’s communing with her friends that thought there was something off about your boy. They don’t know exactly what, but will give an answer vaguely close and neutral ensuring her that they know what the fuck is going on. Most of the time, their “omelette of knowledge” is foundation’d around something they’ve heard all their lives from hearsay, probably from someone older. They feel it necessary to take control with a “mama knows best,” approach, and to the trained eye, only goes to show what little progress they’ve achieved in life. They just don’t know what a good guy looks like, so good guys look a little off or unbelievable. It’s not threatening to us pricks, but their defense mechanisms. The fangs only come out when you do something wrong. Bitches are like cats. They will do what they want, and there’s nothing you can do. You push, and it will hurt.

Cats, dogs, pricks, bitches, Sex in the City, and a Band of Brothers. Gentlemen, you’re in a pack with the wrong kind of leader. The wrong kind of leadership leads nowhere. Remember when Joey from Friends got his own show? Neither do I. Ladies, you don’t give the puppy a treat when he pisses on your rug, but sometimes a girlfriend of yours does because he’s the cutest puppy ever! Your rug is still pissed on but the only thing the puppy knows is that he got a treat even after juicing your rug. I’ve got to start closing my blinds now and locking my doors. What next?

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Filed under fiction metaphor, non-fiction rambling, rhetoric, stories

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