The Death Of Matilda Part I
I needed to get the hell out of there. Fuck that shit.
My Celica awoke with a start, and she purred, ready for me to drive her hard with my stick shift.
Never did she complain to me, ever, to the end.
I had rebuilt her with a good heart.
I had rebuilt her, with a good heart.
Indeed, Fast Cast, a comma can make a difference.
I saw movement in my rear view mirror and looked up at it. Joey ran out as I squealed my rear tires in escape mode. Positraction in a fucking Toyota, baby. He waved his hands over his head, growing smaller and smaller as he chased after me down the street.
Dude would need a ride back home.
Katheena and also Joey kept calling, but my mother told them each time that I was not available to answer the phone. This was back when there was only one land line in each house, when personal computers and cell phones were not available to anyone but the very wealthy. “Texting” and “Instant Messaging” were not invented yet.
Can you imagine that shit?
I lied in bed, listening to HGTTG on NPR, and I couldn’t even pay attention to that awesome story.
I did not sleep much at all.
At work the next evening, there was another story happening, or not happening.
Glinda wanted to talk. I didn’t have anything to say. She kept following me around the restaurant and stepping in front of me.
I did not have the energy nor the mental faculty to engage in her shit. I mean, wasn’t it obvious? I simply had no emotional investment in her. It had been simple strings.
That was chust so sad for her, and it was also pretty fucked up of me.
That fucker Himmy sprayed his dishes as usual before sliding the rack into the Hobart, and I would come into the kitchen when they were done, to take them to the clean room to air dry in the heat in there.
Glinda was in there just before she left work when I carried in a fresh rack of clean dishes.
“Will. I’m quitting work here.”
“Huh. Sorry about that.” I turned to go back out.
“Hey! I Have something to tell you! Fucking stop avoiding me!”
I turned back around to face her. She was very pretty, and she did not deserve to be treated badly. I chust didn’t know what the hell I was doing. But at least I knew that. So I stopped and turned around and said, “I can’t give you any answers. I have nothing.”
“Will, I wanted to thank you for taking me out to my photoshoot, that’s all. My mom just called me at work here and said she had some good news.”
“Glinty just drove over to my house and delivered the pictures he developed last night in his black room, and Momma says they look really good. Momma said that he did an awesome job. She says she thinks I can use these.”
“That’s pretty cool, Glinda.”
“Yeah. I need to focus on my career now. So I’m bailing here. No two week notice. I have better things to do with my time.”
“Oh. Good luck.”
“Thanks. I’ll need it.”
“You won’t need good luck. You have the looks.”
“That’s nice. I don’t know what the hell is going on with you, but I know that you are not the asshole you are pretending to be.”
“OK. Well. Yeah. Fuck you too I guess.”
There was this tig bittied chick who just started at the restaurant, and she was cute.
Here we go again.
Except for this:
She had a boyfriend who drove a Harley, and he carried a big wrench.
It would turn out to be a wrench that would tighten up some loose nuts.
It would make me kill my bitch.
Ain't that about a bitch?
Nuts for balls. Baseball announcer goes nuts.
Dude probably lives in one of these weird apartments.
Too bad he didn’t live in a Hobbit house. This is pretty cool, for a miniature.
Probably has bees in his chimney.
He could use some education, like some lost, poor asshole in a desert could have.
Or, he could use more beer. Here are some pub signs from Britland.
He should chust stop it. Funny stop sign pics.
Dude don’t know what time it is. This could help: Cool finger ring watch. Finger ring. Not, fingering, you dirty minded bawstud.
Speaking of fingering, Tracy Morgan had something to say about teh buttsecks.
Tina Fey on Tracy Morgan’s Homophobic rant.
God Help You.
God Help Us All.
OK, One More For Ya.
Mommy Might Kill Me?