Tag Archives: Fat Bastard

the wuc bytes – dodgeball

I think GP broke me.

Not in a wild horse kinda way, understand. He aint the Wuc Whisperer, for cryin’.

Nor, for the record, have I sunk to Bridget Jonesean lows (all by myself in earnest and epilepsy, my undies big enough to house a troupe of transient midgets).

Neverthemore, lassy. Much like little lost Ledger on his mountain of gayness, or the pink boom box which fell from my teenage hand one Bangled day in June, I’m broke back good.

Blessed be my boom box. May you rest in Iko Iko an nay.

Where inspiration once flowed, as hot and steady as Ryan Reynolds on roller skates, now here I sit. My synapses on dolt delay. My thoughts as restless as the audience of any given panto. My literary light as wayward as a Lohan firefly.

GP, my figurative Fat Bastard, has stolen my motherlovin mmmojo (to be said like Autistic Powers). He took my, baby back, baby back, baby back ribs. (He ate a baby.)

What am I to do, you ask? Well, there’s only one thing you can do when life gives you a wedgie so profound, your children are picking the cotton from their cleave for generations.

Throw me a frikkin bone here.

The dude who sits next to me at work burns my toast, I might’ve mentioned.

It’s not just that he dresses like a Corky or watches me like a puppy waiting to be let out so he doesn’t crap on the carpet. It’s a little that and a little this: where other people have dysfunction (yeah, me) (and don’t kid yourself, you too), he has beige non-offensive answers to every goddamn thing (which quite frankly, offends me). If he has to ask a hard hitting question, he’ll phrase the first three words and then leave silence hanging in the air like a malformed speech bubble, prompting you to utter the words to your own demise. Drop some avocado pips in your pit whydon’tyou, so we can both pretend you have a pair.

The sound of him eating lunch is akin to the lapping of Fat Bastard’s saliva glands as he eyes a baby. He sits next to me, whispering to himself or humming disjointedly as he makes long, scribbled lists. I hate his sounds as if we’ve been married for thirty fucking years. Every fucking hum, every fucking slurp makes me want to shoot him in the nipple with a BB gun so many times, it makes him look like he has a lopsided man boob.

Maybe I irritate him just as much and every time I apply lipstick, smacking my lips to make sure it’s even, his sphincter recoils into his body and the acid builds in his stomach like the tidal wave in Deep Impact.

But what it really comes down to is his cult leader tendencies and creepy I-will-make-you-love-me-even-if-I-have-to-tie-you-to-a-chair-and-forcefeed-you-rainbows smile. He attended a men’s conference last weekend. I mean, honestly! (To be said in an English accent.) I don’t know what in heckfire that is, except that it involved 200 men, chanting and most likely, a bulk purchase of moo-fucken-moos.

Any further knowledge would need the sort of classification that ushers in a movie – Rated MM (moo moo); recommended for viewers with mental longitude and a lack of underwear.

He calls everyone “my man” and starts conversations like this:

“How are you, are you happy in your job?” Nice conversational whiplash, Charlie.

“Huh?” Like an old man being woken from a nap.

“What is it you want to do?”

“Uh …” Be left alone? “what do you mean?”

“In life, what is it you want most?”

“To be jaunty, like a bumble bee with an expensive toupee and a bottle of Chianti.” To lock you in a box with a looped tape of Titanic and bottle of laxatives.

“Sometimes I think, what does God have planned for me?” Insert sidewinder about life and obligations here.

Too harsh? Learn to deal, that’s how I roll. I figure it’s a fair trade, given that he makes me want to stab my eyeball with a prison shiv forged with a plastic fork and cigarette lighter.


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