Are you trying to Garfunkel me?

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.

About the wuc

I'm a chick living in Australia, working for the man. I hate office work with a passion usually reserved for James Cameron, but somehow I ended up with a career behind a desk, stapling my forehead at random intervals.

91 Responses to “Are you trying to Garfunkel me?”

  1. Hey, wucclet! I just dropped by to say, Merry Wucs Christmas! (Or whatever strange folklore-ish seasonal festival you “down under” types practice. I understand it has something to do with Barbie?)

  2. Egg-sellent! Witty and wanging. (I just made that word up, I think. Or is it dirty?)
    Thanks for liking my blog. I’m going to keep an eye on yours.
    Sarcasm, irreverence, snark – what’s not to like?

Trackbacks/Pingbacks

  1. Who I’m Following – Bloggers in UK and AU Start My Day « OnLit - January 20, 2012

    [...] understand her Aussie slang). Sample posts include I’m gonna punch you in the ovary and Are you trying to Garfunkel me? Just go there. See for yourself. Advertisement GA_googleAddAttr("AdOpt", "1"); [...]

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