Fits and Starts

Dear Santa,

Diamonds are a girl’s best friend. SO GIVE ME SOME FUCKING DIAMONDS ALREADY!!! What, you think I’m fucking you because I like fat men with white beards? You’re a philandering pig and you’re paying me for blowing your ice-cold cock. Time for the Bling-Bling, Daddy-O! I want ice around my neck, dangling from my ears, piercing my tongue, my belly-button, my clit. Then I want you to fuck me sideways till Sunday with a huge dildo-shaped diamond! Smooth and rounded, no hard edges. Put it in the freezer and make it ice cold for my hot, sizzling puzzy! Then leave it on the dresser before hauling your fat ass up that chimney, you fucking man-bitch.

Sincerely,
Your Whore

...

How can you justify spending that kind of cash on a whore? Seriously? What is wrong with you, man? You’ve gotta think, you know?

Easy for you to say.

Easy for me to say? How the … What the … You are a fucking moron.

Well, I just think if you’d walked a mile in my shoes…

If I walked a mile in your shoes I’d fucking blow my brains out. I would. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.

Well, fuck you, too, man. Who the fuck asked you, anyway? Mind your own fucking business.

You brought it up! You were bragging, “Oh, I spent $75,000 on a whore in Aruba last year." All “la-de-friggin-da.” You fuck. You fucking fuck!

What, man?

You know—you know!—my daughter is a whore in Aruba! You fucking know that!

So, what, you think I was fucking your daughter all last year?

FUCK YOU!

Well, I don’t think so, man, unless your daughter is Nigerian.

Nigerian?

Yeah, man. Nigerian.

Oh.

Yeah.

Well, okay, that is pretty fucking cool then.

Thank you! Fuck, man, it’s like pulling teeth with you.

Sorry.

Don’t worry about it. Hey, get me a beer as long you’re up.

...

Going on a lion hunt. Bears everywhere. I wonder where the bears went? Oops, there they are. Silly bears! Tra la la la laaaaaaa!

...

We are hunting for bears!

That was what the two men yelled at us as they ran up the hill toward us. We turned to one another, the three of us, expressing bewilderment with our puzzled looks. They were naked, for one, and they didn’t have guns or even knives, for another. What do you do when two naked men sprint up a mountain path toward you while screaming “We’re hunting for bears!”? That was the unspoken question. For Jeremy, it turns out, the answer is to sprint at them screaming unintelligibly for a few seconds before hitting the ground and curling up into a fetal position. Fucking Jeremy.

Unsurprisingly, that did not faze the streaking men. They were still sprinting at us full speed and were fast approaching. Darrell shrugged his shoulders, turned, and simply kept walking up the hill. For several moments I stared without focusing at the space Darrell had been occupying. Without thinking, I turned to look down the hill. The two streakers were practically on top of me, their eyes wide and wild, their bodies covered in sweat and dirt, their tongues wagging, and their breathing heavy and loud. I was about to open my mouth to say something, but they passed by me before I could.

It was a damn hot day. That I remember. Way too hot to be hiking during the middle of the day like we were. Sure, naked’s one way to cool down. Not a very practical way, but whatever. Anyway, the two guys passed by Darrell, too, without any of the three of them saying a word. I ran for a bit to catch up to Darrell. Jeremy came soon thereafter, huffing and puffing. And whimpering. Pussy.

...

Dear Santa,

I want a motorcycle, a parachute, a train, a box of shoestrings, a canister of nitrous oxide, a bong, a board game, a giant ball of licorice, a magic cheese wand, a dart board, face paints, a gargoyle statue, a helicopter, a tree stump, an ocean beach, a gallon of mayonnaise, a mountain bike, an altimeter, a metal detector, a compass, a flashlight, some beeswax, a diamond earring, a gold-plated chess set, and four fire-glazed clay frogs. Or a toaster. Whatever, really.

...

Motherfucker! How the fuck am I supposed to get this into that? I mean this is huge and that … that is not! This is ridiculous. There’s no way this is going to work. I don’t even know where to begin. There is nowhere to begin. There’s just no way. I’m sorry. It’s just … I’m sorry.

...

Out of seven finely tuned--

...

It’s usually one or the other sits down. Not both. But we should ask them a question, anyway, Sally.

What should we ask them, Phil?

What kind of lipstick you should wear!

Or, will you die alone and penniless in a gutter somewhere, forgotten by no one!

Or, will you spend eternity driving into an endless horizon listening to whining children perpetually screech “Stop touching me!”!

Or—

Shut the fuck up, already.

Hey, Stones, how’s it going. We were just—

You were just shutting the fuck up.

Um, yeah.

[Later that evening]

*sniff*

Huh?

*sniff*

Wh, what is it?

I thought I heard something.

...

I do not want to stop listening to your reasons for loving me. I could light a cigarette and just let it burn without inhaling while you whisper "I love you, I love you, baby."

...

I want a fiction of someone else's apartment, an unoccupied apartment without furniture, people, no animals or plants, nothing at all, just page after page of nothing happening: The light turned into day and the day turned into night and still no one came or left. Nothing happened, but to say that would be to ignore the accumulation of dust. The dust came and came and came until the whole place was covered in a film of grime. Still, no one came and, still, the night turned to day and the day turned to night. Years passed and nothing happened. But to say nothing happened would be to ignore the paint peeling on the walls, the fungi in the toilet growing down the sides of the bowl, the mildew in the shower becoming a coral reef of colors. See what I'm saying? No? Oh. Well then fuck it.

...

I've had two lifelong passions: fishing and pimping.

...

I'm being playful but there is some truth to this. Absurdity is tragedy. Nonsense is desperation. It's also hope, an attempt to escape the confines of taboo to authentically communicate longing and terror and even wonder and love. Does this diminish confusion? Does the collapse of confusion separate us even now? If you could categorize me, would you? I think the answer is yes. Yes, you've done just that and now I exist inside a tiny box in your mind. You've shredded newspaper in there as if I might defecate in my own tiny cage while you pursue more important things like checking to see if any mail has arrived or looking at your iPhone to see if anyone tweeted or twatted or texted or totted. Makes me want to piss out of my cage and twist your synaptic connections around so you love window panes more than your mother. Cruel? You think that's cruel? Hey, you put me in a fucking compartment in your mind! Fucking asshole! It's all just another opportunity for you. I'm going to have sex with your conception of your mother and make your conception of your father watch. How about that, bitch! You thought I was a nice guy, just writing easy sing-song funnies. Well, fuck you. I can be vicious, mean, and as cruel as you, every bit as sadistic and awful. You should be fucking terrified. This ain't no Disney show. You ain't getting by that easy, mofo.

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[burp]

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