Ineffective payroll officers suck my nut. (I only have one.)
Mosquitos. Damn bloodsuckers.
For the record: I do not have two cents. I don't have one cent, or five cents, or seventeen cents. It's hot out, and I don't carry a jacket. Thus any pockets where I would keep change are occupied by the cell phone I have to carry, the keys which poke my thigh, and the wallet I hate carrying around in my back pocket.
YOU have ninety-nine cents. You also have ninety-five cents and eighty-three cents. In this interaction, I'm afraid you have the upper hand. You have the change, and I have limited pockets with which to carry the change. When I leave with my shower curtain and liner, I'll jingle all the way home like a hobo on payday. You will not suffer that ignominy. You will remain here, standing on your soft mat, making change as the computer tells you to. More than likely, the next person up will prefer to take home two quarters, and you'll dole out five dimes. Such is the power you wield.
I'm sorry I've not chosen to pay with a debit or credit card. That last person who tried it obviously intended to quiz you on the finer points of ion propulsion past the Kuiper Belt, and I felt you needed a breather. Yes, I did visit an ATM recently, and that's why I'm handing over a twenty-dollar bill. But not only does that not mean I'm less of a person, but the arithmetic required to give me my change in cash is the same arithmetic required to give me my change in coin. It's not base 4 and base 10.
Open the till, take a deep breath, and complete the transaction by counting enough coin to bring me to the nearest dollar, then count out cash to cover the difference. If you have a problem making up the difference because your till is short on change, call a supervisor over or speak with a nearby cashier. If none of those options are available, then I'll put my merchandise back and we can forget this whole thing. Sucking in your teeth is not called for. This is your job, right now. I'd break things down further to discuss the social contract, but I don't have the time. Just know that I'm on my way to grab breakfast and some items from the supermarket, so I'll be using the mountain of nickels, pennies, and dimes you're about to give me to make someone else's life easier, or seriously piss off a waiter.
a lazy rhyme
sucks every time.
Heat and humidity past the hour of 9 PM. Excuse me (and I can take issue with people who start sentences with "excuse me," as well), but I didn't struggle mightily through placenta, with my own umbilical cord wrapped around my neck, to spend my late thirties sweltering in my hothouse studio apartment, thank you very much.
[Ed.: Yikes, my friend. Thank YOU for the lovely image. You're lucky our censorship standards border on the anarchist.]
I am officially done with Beauty and the Beast, and now I have today and tomorrow before I have to start thinking about the next one. Neil Simon. Rumors. I have to build its set. Maybe I should just jump from a high place. Maybe they should start paying me more. I'd like that. A lot.
"Beauty and the Beast!" God, get out of my brain, you fucking Disney shit! Why have you wormed your way into my brain? I swear, the song "Be Our Guest" has taken up residence in my temporal lobe, and every five minutes it comes shrieking out, demanding candy. It haunts me, Paul. It makes me wish I were a small goat in Tunisia.
That's what my life has become. Tunisia. Goats. A kindly but senile old shepherd who tries to shear me at regular intervals. His son who is confused and likes to fondle my goat testicles because he thinks they're marbles, marbles like all the other children's fathers can afford to buy, but his can't because he's a senile shepherd with no sheep who tries to shave his lone goat, but I'm a shorthair goat, damn it, and I don't have any wool.
His wife tried to knit a sweater out of the fuzz from my ass. An ass-fuzz sweater, Paul. It was so thin and tiny that not even a tiny, thin, well-insulated man who lived in a volcano could make use of it. And the son with his confusion. Not that I really mind having my testicles fondled by a retard, but I'm a goat and I'm not exactly able to derive much sexual satisfaction from it.
And all there is to eat is turnips. The water has a high iron content because of the steel mill down the road, but they don't care about environmental damage in this part of Tunisia, so I think there's a lump of iron filings slowly growing in my stomach, and I'm not able to tell anyone because no one understands me. They'll find me one day, my stomach missing, lying on my side with a large iron boulder covered in blood at the bottom of the hill which I climbed to try to bleat out my pain and suffering. But no one listens, Paul. They don't care about goats.
They're too busy fantasizing about not living in Tunisia, being swept off their feet by Paris Hilton, who comes to the country in a charitable mood and decides to purchase airline tickets for the first family she sees. Then they'll fly off to Vegas and leave me stranded on this hill with a slowly-growing stomach cannonball, and I'll wind up being owned by a casino in Vegas when the family that owns me loses all their money at blackjack. And they don't have a car, Paul, so they're going to have to sell the one thing they do have, which is me. I guess I should be flattered that I'm their last resort, but frankly I don't care for them mortgaging me and my goat-ly form to the Bellagio.
Who am I kidding? The Bellagio doesn't let Tunisians through the front door. No, I'll wind up owned by some bumblefuck little casino on the outskirts of the Strip. Someplace called the Desert Oasis Palm Sands Casino, Hotel, Bar, and Grill, where not even the strippers are attractive, and they perform in the nude, which tells you just how lacking in class this place will be. They'll be the bucktoothed heroin-addict rejects from successful strip clubs. There will be a one-legged dwarf named Mona who dances under the moniker "Legless Lola," even though she obviously has one good leg that she hides by tying it up behind her back every night to draw in the freak crowd. And then, of course, there will be three women named Stephanie, two named Charleen, and a black woman who calls herself Paradise. That's no way to draw a crowd.
They'll probably send for me back in Tunisia, and you know how uncomfortable goats get on planes, and they're not going to be shipping me first-class, Paul. I'll be in a small crate with only one air hole, and the family will be crying because they're losing their only sheep, those stupid bastards. I think I might miss the retard son, even though he molested me every day of my short goat life. But anything, even Tunisia, has to be better than having to be a goat stripper in a run-down dive in Vegas. They'll name me Gary, since there aren't any other names beginning with G, and you know strippers have to have euphonious names. Gary the Goat, Paul. That's what my life has been reduced to, a cheap goat in a cheap joint doing cheap tricks for cheap businessmen. All the ball-fondling in the world couldn't compete with that.
And I'll grow lonesome and make friends with only one stripper, who will undoubtedly be named Sweet Clydelle and will do interpretive dance to the Harlem Globetrotters theme music. That whistling will slowly sap her will to live, and she'll spend all her money on drugs to dull the pain, and in the end she'll blow her brains out after a show, and I'll come stumbling in and find her body on the floor. I'm a GOAT; how am I supposed to I dial 911? I'll be forced through the hideous mockery of a judicial system you have in this country and then probably be deported because I'm not a legal alien, since I'm sure by then Tom Tancredo will have won a major election and outlawed all alien goats. But when I return to Tunisia the family will be gone, and I'll starve.
Maybe someone will take pity on me, but I can't love myself, so why should anyone else love a drugged-out ex-stripping goat who's not good enough for either Tunisia or Vegas? Tell me that, Paul? Why can't a goat get a break? I'm so tired of turnips and iron.
Shit sandwiches. Metaphoric or literal. But please tell everybody that I love to call something a "shit sandwich," 'cause it just sounds so funny. Like "batshit crazy." "Shit" is the new "fuck."