“Hey, Thoughts on my Ass!”
You’re not letting go of that nickname, are you?
“If the ass fits, man.”
Mustache looks good.
“I been putting something new on it.”
“Heh heh. Look at this skank! Hell, this ain’t skank: these are foxes. Well, they might be skank.”
What do you mean?
“Skank can be an underlying condition. Sometimes, a chick is real hot. Total fox. Then you get her a little kablooey in the Hostility Suite, and events arise. Events.”
“This one chick? She was Miss Michigan. Not the runner-up or Miss Congeniality, any of that shit: she won the thing. The stonest-cold fox you’d ever see, man.”
“And then she showed us how she could swallow a kielbasa. Skank.”
This is perilously close to slut-shaming, Billy.
“Go fuck yourself with your internet buzzword fourth-wave feminism laced with outrage culture, fuckwit.”
“I’m a Rock Star in 1974.”
Yes, but you’re also here in 2016. Everything happens at once.
“Uh-huh, I’m gonna choose to identify as existing in 1974, when I could say whatever the fuck I wanted at all times.”
Not a dumb decision. White girls had long hair in 1974.
“Yeah, love that shit. Get two chicks, right? Then you tie their hair together and throw a raccoon at ’em.”
Stop doing these things.
“No. See these two?”
“Gonna get real strange with ’em. Dress ’em in monkey costumes, make ’em check each other for nits and grubs.”
“Maybe gonna get into a Phantom of the Opera.”
“You’re behind her, right? Skank, fox, whatever; anyway, you reach up and put your fingers in her nostrils. Pull ’em back real hard, and she looks just like Lon Chaney.”
I don’t know why I talk to you.