Archive | July, 2011

Here comes the smolder.

Gay Prince made his return today, a veritable Vincent Vega in his pencil tie and Pulp suit; as welcome to me as the undies of Robert Downey Jr (on my floor come Sunday morning).

And for once, I was triumphant. Super hero, hands on hips, cape billowing in the breeze, tri-oomph-ant. Because, much like a citizen of Jupiter resolved to assimilate with humankind to find a new life, I rose early today and coiffed my galactic ass to within an inch of its life. Translation: I have blushing lips, mermaid hair and hips that corner like they’re on rails.

There he stood, the Vega to my Wallace, hovering by the gunslingers.

Gal Gun threw her head back and laughed like a maniacal crash-test dummy. Not about to join the meeting of the mines (aka land), I gave him the nod and retreated to my seat (like a Grammy award-winning hip-hop artist upon entering Diddy Puff’s crib, yo). Then I ignored him, striking (I like to think) a beautiful balance between regal and reflux (aka acid).

Finally. After the first handicap African-American lesbian little person was inaugurated into the White House, my Prince came to stand at my desk. He grins his bing-a-ling down at me and (this is a good angle for me) I smile up him, as if he’s come upon me in a meadow of dandelions, my harp lying nearby. “You look lovely today”. Booyar, bet your ass I do.

“I see you put in effort this morning.”

And there it is. Is this where Disney and reality divide, like the chasm that is Tori Spelling’s cleavage? I guess you’re only as good as your last disguise, and clearly mine was akin to Gene Hackman upon Birdcage exit. Gal Gun watches this exchange with barrel eyes.

I promised you back story, so here ’tis: I suspect they may have done the (drum roll)… horizontal mam-bo. If not in front of a live studio audience, then per’aps a little footwork in the lady’s green room (wink wink, nudge nudge). HONK! HONK!

See, Gal Gun has many male friends (no women, whaddayaknow) and, like knights of the round tookus, they circle her in a mirror of programmed reflection. Pseudo boyfriends to admire and make credible the press release. I’ve felt for some time that Gay Prince fit into this Seussian landscape someplace. But where, exactly?

“From there to here, from here to there, funny things are everywhere!”

Until now I had remained invisible to the story book she was weaving but, as she struck down upon thee with baleful eyes and furious envy, it appeared her eyes’d caught up with her ego.

Hell of a thing, killin’ a man.

I went out with the gunslingers last night, an act of lunacy I’d sworn never to repeat. I guess you’d call it a peacekeeping mission; but instead of an MK47, I was armed with moxy and a clean pair of shorts (to be said like Ace Ventura).

We’ve settled into a quiet unease of late, the sun threatening to set on our two-bit Western. I see the squint of their Clint … hands suspended over holsters. They sniff the air and know, my loyalty lies else(where). This town aint big enough for the trio of us.

Hence drinks, in mask of my mutiny. We sat around the table: Married Guy (a tale for another day), Gal Gunslinger, Guy Gunslinger and me. Chump. I cracked funnies, they laughed. But nothing reached the eyes. A poker game, with me as the dogeared Joker.

There would be no green fairies tonight, my foes.

It’s funny how much can change when nothing external alters. Like Justin once wanted Britney, they’d once wanted me. Those fuckers had pursued me like a granny pursues the elastic of her shorts as they drop beyond her knees (event horizon). Actually. Guy Gun chased, while Gal Gun looked upon me like Paul upon yechy Yoko (yo).

He won out, and she began to shine with the same maniacal glow (didn’t have much choice, see). They showed me theirs, I showed them my peppy and friendship rainbows arced the sky. Gal Gun swore my secrets went into The Vault, never to be shared with another living soul; all-the-while regaling me with the intimate details of Married Guy’s divorce.

Whaddayaknow, that girl was soon leaking like Paltrow in an Oscar speech, and vault items began appearing in the Gunslinger Gazette. Meanwhile, Guy Gun slowly turned from soft-spoken geek to an orgy-owning Ozzy with poison whippet-tail.

Like a former-CIA agent who’d made a living off the frailty of the human psyche, I had of course known this day would come. From the moment I’d clocked these Charlies, jaunting like a couple of prize fighters who’d never taken a dive (fists raised – jab, uppercut, jab).

“We are Rocky. You, Lundgren waiting to happen.”

And as I made my way home, walking like Frankenstein with a wedgie, I knew they’d caught it. Oh yeah baby. While I was bent over, takin’ it up the tailpipe, they caught the Whiff on the Wind. I wasn’t with them. And if I wasn’t with ’em …

I then spent ten minutes searching for my keys, only to realize they were in my left hand.

the wuc bytes – nothing to lose

Believe it or not, there’s one day a year where I embody the betterment of mankind.

On this day, I frolic through the proverbial with a photo of Betty White in one hand and a winning smile in the other. Birds perch on my shoulder performing Pink songs, I make people chuckle (the sound like Chopsticks on Buddha’s teeth) and I instill world peace with a single Tim Tam. And people love me (you really love me!) like a nipple twist at the World Rally.

I used to think this incarnation was my true self and the crotchety old miser the interloper. What an ignoramus, yo. When fools try to reconnect with this wondrous human the next day, they are instead met with me: Walter Matthau in drag. (Cue evil laughter.)

If we’re gonna silver line this puppy: I do get one day a year where other peoples’ kids don’t chafe me like Jerry Bruckheimer on every DVD extra ever-fucking-made.

But silver linings are for astronaut undies, my friends.

“It means, there’s a spider. on your mutherfucken head, man.”

Well do ya, punk?

I hate the word ‘naughty’, I really do. Sure. It aint up there with ‘tummy’ or ‘vagina’ … but for the love of Gandhi! If you aint a parent, you got no cause to be using it.

This anti-penchant may be due to my sociopathic boss of traumatic times past who would extend his hand to be spanked when naughty. As he was a dullard who couldn’t wipe his own ass, much less make it to a meeting on time, this was disturbingly often.

I should’ve known something was off the day I met him, given his striking resemblance to John-cunting-Howard. But tragically, he slipped under my radar and I found myself down for every tango on his sociopathic dance card. He’d steal files from my office and root through my bins at night, lying in wait the next day to interrogate me over the contents.

Think, De Niro. Polygraph. Focker.

So knotted was his ego, he was confounded when I finally left and looked upon it as a betrayal. Sure, Hathaway gets the horizontal mambo with Simon-bloody-Baker in gay Paris. All I got was unemployment and a hole in my psyche the size of Oprah.

Those were the salad days my friends.

The other end of this mind-boggling spectrum are my two ‘best’ bosses. Real down-to-earth guys. The kind that’ll catch-up for coffee when all’s said and done … then fare-thee-well with a gratuitous grope. (Is there any other kind?) One went for the boob, the other for the ass (though, I suppose I should be thankful, not at the same time).

My résumé reads like a mutherlovin after-school special, yo.

Which brings us with whiplash speed to present day. Why do I impart such golden nuggets the likes of which a courtroom has never seen? I’m up for parole, see. This job finishes in a couple of months and I don’t yet know what follows. Though I’m too wizened to look upon this horizon like Oliver Twist upon the kind rich man who takes him in.

Knowing my luck, he’d Brownlow my proverbial the first chance he got.

You’re an adult. Just cope.

I’m as sick as a dog, man. I look like Snuffal-fucking-uffagus. Or Jeff Goldblum in The Fly – my body slowly disintegrating as I transform from human to insect.

(Pause for trauma and flashback to: the fingernail scene. Ewww.)

I suppose this makes you Geena Davis, the witness to my festy – someone who moderately cares but will ultimately leave me, if my appendages don’t stop falling off.

Before you go, let me take a moment to depict just how disgusting I’ve become. I have Britney Spears neck because my glands are so swollen (seriously, that girl looks like a pro-wrestler, it’s as thick as her head) and my sinuses are now manic depressive, one minute flowing like Dylan lyrics and the next, becoming more clogged than a Dutch folk dance.

Such was my desperation, last night I googled home remedies and the recommendation came back: squeeze the ju-ice (to be said like Pauly Shore) of a spring onion into thy nasal cavity. Job done. Fortuitous then, that I didn’t have any spring onions in the house.

In the space of a day, societal conventions have all but broken down. I’ve become a Gollum cave-dwelling creature who cowers from the light through yonder window break and calls the delivery boy “precious”. Occasionally, I’ll limp into the next room to make tea, leaving a trail of used tissues in my wake (like a festy mucus-Gretel marking the path back to good health).

Any semblance of my former self was irrevocably lost early this morning (during a barrage of twitter nightmares) and I now resemble my hermit uncle living amidst piled dishes, tissues and discarded clothes (though at least I have floorboards, yo).

How did it take only 24 hours to reach this level of debauchery? Is that all the time it takes to become culturally homeless?

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