[lit-ideas] WHERE IS THE JUSTICE?
- From: "Mike Geary" <atlas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: Fri, 11 Apr 2008 21:23:49 -0500
There's this guy, you see, and his wife, who frequent Old Zinnie's, the bar
I occasionally frequent daily . He's about a foot taller than me and stocky
and has jet black hair and wears Buddy Holly glasses. I would hate him for the
glasses alone because they go so good with his facial structure, that is, he
looks good in them. But I care not a whit about him. I'm madly in love with
his wife who's about a foot and a half taller than me, trim as a lamp post with
dual lamps, she dresses in black and has long jet black hair and she wants me
-- I can tell -- and she would respond to my "I'm available" sexy eyebrowing
were it not for the ever present Buddy Holly husband, I'm sure of it. Ach.
Life.
There are many women I've never gone to bed with. About three billion or
so still living. It doesn't seem fair. If I only had the time and the chance
to get to know each and every one, I'm sure most would let me. Women want to
be wooed, I've learned that. But they seem to have no appreciation for how
little time is given to a man. "Wham-bam" is thought insensitive, and it is,
but Christ, consider the time limitations we men are working under. It's not
that there's no love here, it's just that I'm losing energy rapidly. Come all
ye women quickly while I still can.
OK, that's the news from Old Zinnie's. There's other news. For instance, I
haven't contributed to my incredibly wonderfully zany novel for over 4 days now
due to customer interference. I hate those people, they're so needy: "Can you
fix this?" "Will you fix that?" Don't they have refrigeration gauges for
Christ's sake? Fix it yourself, I'm not your goddamn maid. Sweet Jesus, I
hate all my customers. I hate working. I hate doing anything other than what
I want to do at the time. I realize that the slaves had it tough and so did
most women for 100,050 years. But I don't care about that. I just resent my
needy customer and I hate my landlord and I wish evil on all my creditors.
Speaking of making love to women, I can't decide if birds are cursed or
blessed. Dispensing with all the rude whistling foreplay, bird coitus lasts
for about a second. A cloacal kiss, it's called -- which I won't describe
knowing Walter's sensibilities in such matters, suffice it to say that it's the
male who has to expend all the energy hovering over the female for at least a
second, trying to touch cloacae (sewer holes) to release his sperm packet.
Love should be made of lovelier stuff. But it sure is efficient. LK would be
proud.
Basta, zut, enough.
Mike Geary
Memphis
Other related posts:
