Why is it every time I look like a lesbian firefighter, that’s when Metro Prince (thus renamed) does a drive-by? I mean, honestly. The days I’m coiffed and captivating, where is he?
It’s getting to be ri-goddamn-diculous.
This morning he prances by like a purple pony. I felt the whiplash in my proverbial, let me tell you. And I have pimples on my chin. Pimples, people! I made it through puberty without one but since 30, they’ve been showing up like Richard Simmons at an after party.
“You missed my call this morning, was it on purpose?”
“Huh? What?” Like an old man caught napping at the check-out.
The gunslingers, who’ve had a dangerous glint in their eye of late, view this exchange like a couple of loan sharks. Where I was in, now I have one leg out (like a game of hokey-pokey high school). Consorting with the prince is unsanctioned (I’ll give you the back story later).
That, and one night I went out with them after work, see. And things got a little Anne Heche. When these guys drink, they mutherfucken drink. Ten beers, triple-doubles (sshitloads of shotsss) and then. Then, green fairies (aka absinthe). Boozing with these mavericks is akin to letting Nick Nolte pack your parachute. I ain’t going down like that.
So they’re knocking ‘em back and telling crazy-ass sex stories, and I’m covertly tipping mine into empty beer glasses. (That’s how I roll. I aint imbibing no motherfucken absinthe.) Next minute, they’re smashing empty pint glasses across the table like Ozzy Osbourne in an epileptic. Très rock ‘n’ roll, but when they point at a woman and slur “booby, booby, booby”
… it’s time to go.
Since then, they’ve been like a pair of dirty cops scared I’ll turn them in to Internal Affairs. I work for the Big Cheese and they don’t like it. The fact I’d never roll on ‘em, means nothing. It’s just a matter of time before I take two in the back of the head.