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. I love it, you’re cracking me up here. I’m a 50 something Adelaide chick and I just laughed enough to consider it an ab workout (trying to stop myself falling off the fricking swiss ball that I use for a desk chair, don’t wanna mess up my floor boards with a chair, eh?).

    I had unsubscribed but I now realise the error of my ways and am resubscribing to this workout wit!

    Cheers, MLT

    • Major wucs, that’s frikkin awesome. I deserved your unsubscribe (going in and out like a dodgy radio station and not writing for soooo long) – but I’m so glad that you came back!

      Thanks much, MLTucker.

  2. Thanks for reading my blog. Love your writing!

  3. “things got a little Anne Heche” – been there before . . . many times.

  4. Absinthe? Even with all the crap I have consumed on this blue marble, that shiz aint going down my gullet. Well played IMO, live to laugh at them another day.

  5. My goodness, you are talented. Yeah, men and sex and booze…makes you wonder what happened at the beginning —did cave men dance around and make gutteral sounds.?

    Good for you not trying to keep up with the contest. Wait till those guys get to be older.

  6. The one and only time I had absinthe was in a dark, underground (literally) bar in the Czech Republic. Sweet Baby Jesus, what a night.

    Good for you for staying away from that shit. The Green Fairy can be real twat.

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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