The Bastard Walks

Gawker and I seem to disagree about the whole Dwayne Buckle situation. I wrote about this guy a while back and was amused to hear that a group of lesbians, you know, stabbed him after he made some mundane, lowlife remark to them. Bravo. Well done.

Of course, our hero, D. Buckle, remembers saying something classy to the group, something along the lines of, "Hi, how are you doing?" In actuality, he spat and threw a cigarette at them, then told them he'd "fuck them straight." Dude has a short term memory; totally doesn't take rejection well.

Anyway, now the chicks are in jail and this guy's probably hitting on other straight chicks who don't want to fuck him.

How Many Times Did the Guy on The Train Just Make Love to Me?

Before I tell you the answer, let me tell you the background:

The lady across from me was wearing a yellow raincoat and carried a duck face-handled wood umbrella. She watched my every move.

The girl to her right was showing too much tit for the weather (Good weather is directly proportional to the tit visibility factor. Today wasn't that nice).

The guy to Titties' right had actually used the chest strap on his back pack. He had pork chop sideburns.

And to my right was a drunk. Ah, so we meet on even playing grounds, my friend.

I guessed his drink of choice: "Dirty martini. Not shaken. Not stirred. Not dirty. Just the bottle." Or so ordered his breath.

Here's how the rest of the conversation went:

Breath: I just lost $50,000 in Vegas.
Me: That sucks. You should have just given it to the blind guy playing the little piano/harmonica thing over there.
Breath: I'm going to my apartment in Queens. I lived there for two years and I have to change a light bulb. I'm an electrical engineer, you know?
Me: How many electrical engineers does it take to change a light bulb?
Breath: Three? One to hold the light bulb; two to turn the ladder?
Me: No, that's a blond joke. It just takes one electrical engineer. But it takes him 3 days.
Breath: One to hold the light bulb?
Me: Yes, we've covered that.
Breath: I liked that girl's tights. They had a bunch of holes in them. I like holes.
Me: That guy over there has a hole in his jacket. Do you like his hole?
Breath: I want to do you from behind and flip you around and make you breakfast. Bacon, eggs, omelets?
Me: Bacon: extra crispy. Do you make biscuits and gravy?
Breath: Do you know how many times I just made love to you?
Me: That's a good line. Does it work for you?
Breath: That girl's tights really turned me on. I like you better, though. If you were only wearing heels.
Me: [I look down at my running shoes] What; these? These here are real salt of the earth shit.

Here we got to my stop and Mr. Breath proceeded to follow me out of the train to ask for my phone number. Duck-faced umbrella handle watched it all--ask her. Titties will back her up. When I declined, Breath hopped back on the train to go change his light bulb.

I don't actually know how many times the guy on the train just made love to me. How many licks does it take to get to the tootsie roll center of the tootsie roll tootsie pop? One. Two. Threeeeeeeeeeee. The world will never know.

Snapshot

Paulo C's cousin just came into the kitchen where the Skeeze and I were making dumplings and demanded that we, "no deje la cocina sucia." That would be, "don't leave the kitchen dirty." You see, we are only two years old.

Here, she took a glass out of the cabinet, drank out of it and put it back in. She then left a cigarette butt on the counter and pissed on the toilet seat.

She is but a bastion of cleanliness and hygiene.

It Wasn't Supposed to Work, But It Did.

Last night I hosted a moment of brilliance.

I called Dave and was greeted with, "Hey, how are you?"

A little formal, I noted before hearing his friends in the background. He was with my ex's brother--the one who doesn't know about us.

"Oh, you're with Adam? You're undercover right now." I tell him that he goes undercover like a secret agent when he's with Adam. Must. Protect. Dangerous. Secret.

What I hate most about this bastard not knowing that we're together is that when they hang out, Dave is essentially single. Of course, there are other things about this arrangement that annoy me. Things such as the fact that Dave officially has no balls (I prefer a man with a large, durable sac, actually). Things such as us having already been together for 16 months (What the fuck are you waiting for? Seriously, what has to happen for you to tell him, Dave?) or that his friend is a bi-polar alcoholic who does not elicit any such trouble or anxiety on my part.

"That's fine," I said. "I've decided that I'm just going to make a couple of new friends and not tell them about you. I mean, I deserve to have a friend or two who think I'm single."

I thought about the prospects of having friends who didn't know I was with Dave. Everything about it is pure genius: If I flirt with other guys or allow them to, oh I don't know, pick up our entire tab, I won't get the evil "you have a boyfriend, you dirty slut," glare. I'll also be a better prospect for my new single friends to go out with. No one wants to go out with that girl with the boyfriend. Historically, that girl with the boyfriend is very dull. But not me, I'm single.

Anyway, I told Dave about all of this and he started getting pissed off. In the background I heard his friend screaming, "Are you on the phone with one of your hoes, bro?" Because, you know, Dave is single and has many hoes. (I know what you're thinking about the question posited above: Dave's friend is 21 and in a frat. But oddly 'tis not so. He's 34 and gainfully employed. Really).

Dave started getting pissed off. Like, really pissed off. I had no idea such a simple and logical proposition would work so well. The more pissed off he became, the more elaborate my scheme became. "No big deal, I'm only going to keep you a secret for 16 months."

Here we got off the phone and the text messages started: "Babe, I love you so much. I see your point."

I didn't write back. I get a call from him at some club. "Babe, have I ever told you that I want to spend the rest of my life with you and I want you to be the mother of my children."

"Shh," I warned him. "Adam might hear you."

Dave claimed that I was giving him major anxiety about this whole thing. Oh darling, I'm so sorry. Psyche.

"I understand. How could I have let this go on for so long? I shouldn't be hanging out with him so much."

No, it's not that you shouldn't be hanging out with him; it's that you should just tell him, you pathetic fool. In the meantime, I'm single and ready to have some fun.