The Return of Uncle Pegritz!
Oct. 19th, 2005 10:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
oneirophreniaThat's right, bitches and bastards--from the dark abysm of Time and Space (and Fayette County, Pennsylvania), the storyteller of tragick beauty and purely ignorant humor, Uncle Pegritz, has risen from his slumber to slap you across yo' fat asses with a Brand New Special Tale of NONFICTION! But. I varn you, Loyal Readers...this is actually a tale in progress, the first chapter of which I bring to you today. The remaining chapters shall be released as I finish them over the coming weeks, so buckle in for a long and bumpy ride...because, in addition to this tale being physically bigger than even my gargantuan wang, it is also a much darker Storytime with Uncle Pegritz than many of you would expect. This is a tale from that black year of 1999, the year that the Werewolves of Uniontown began to come apart slowly but surely. It may be riddled with the usual spazztastic Pegritz humor, but this is a sad-clown tale if ever there was one.
This tale is the miserable account of my first ever "relationship" with a real live girl...my first kiss in nearly seven years...my first taste of vagina and my first taste of venomous depression--the horrific four-month span of mental torture, bad drug reactions, serotonin cycling, and abject self-loathing that very nearly spelt the End of Your UnHumble Narrator and prettymuch set the tone for all the dating hells I explored for the next however-many years. It is a tale of truly gothick sadness, rage, hallucination, Sturm und Drang, psychosis, neurosis, conflict and destruction...and it begins NOW.
Ladies and gentlemens, I bring you chapter one of the Beginning of the End, the Twilight of the Idols, entitled--simply--
June 26th, 1999….On that day in the year of my alltime favorite Prince song, I turned twentysix years of age. The End Of Life As We Knew It—the Eve of Apocalypse—the Turn of Millenium—the much-vaunted and Jetsons-haunted «««YEAR 2000«««—Y2-fuckin’-K!—was less than six months away and I was so goddamned hot I felt like the seething summer atmosphere was sucking every last drop of water in my body out through my armpits and my back and from the no-man’s-land of the mysterious “taint” behind my nuts. The summer of ’99 had started out comfortable, but by the end of May the thermometers were bubbling up into the 90s, leaving me nauseous and feeling greasy as a plate of diner fries. By the end of June, the heat was unbearable. The sky was bleached white and the air was filled with steam. My house seemed to sponge up that humid swelter and trap it especially in my room, where at the end of the day the sun would glare in with a laserous intensity and heat that sodden atmosphere up to blastfurnace temps that no amount of fans in open windows could dissipate. I needed an airconditioner. Badly.
For my birthday, I’d gotten a hundredsome dollars from my mom and relatives: just enough, I figured, to get a small airconditioner just powerful enough to chill my little room down to a tolerable 60 degrees. I rang up Joe and asked if he wanted to roll up to Wal-Mart and help me pick out a decent cheap unit (that is, help me carry the damn thing—I could barely herc a bag of groceries up to my shoulders, but Joe could tote a small foreign car without breaking a sweat). He was game, so he came out to get me and we rode off in the Jeep. With the doors and the top off, the wind of our passage swirled around us with a wonderfully cooling force and we hung half-out of the vehicle as we sped along, swinging as much of ourselves into the full blast as possible….Ahhhhh. What an incredible feeling.
We stopped at Wal-Mart but—goddamn it—Wal-Mart had just sold its last airconditioner a few days before and wouldn’t be getting any more units in until the next week. “Well, suck a fuck,” I cursed. “That ain’t gonna do me any good—I’ll be dead of heat prostitution by next week!”
“There’s always KMart,” Joe suggested. “And Lowe’s, for that matter.”
“Let’s check KMart,” I growled. “Lowe’s is too fucking expensive, though. You can’t get shit there for under two hundred bucks, and I only have a hundred and twenty. They want thirty bucks and a piece of your left testicle just for a fuckin’ bag of tea-lights….”
KMart was a bust, as well—“We just sold the last of ‘em this morning”—and I was ready to take a fire axe to the forehead of the next fat, oily, bemulleted bastard I saw waddling along in the parkinglot since he or she had probably bought that last airconditioner to cool down his/her disgusting blob of a body. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to find an airconditioner until Joe mentioned Sears, at the nearby Mall. Of course! Sears! They always had cheap appliances there!
So off we went to the Mall. It was a Saturday afternoon, so naturally the Mall’s parkinglot was stuffed full of cars vibrating in the heatshimmer beneath the hot iron sky, every one of them the flagship of a crew of sweaty humans who could potentially be competing with me to land the Last Airconditioner in Fayette County. I was already in a bad, overheated mood, and I could only imagine how much worse said mood would turn once I was inside amongst the shuffling herds of Fayette County’s finest residents, the sluggish old codgers, the gigantic amorphous hillbilly families, the visiting out-of-state relatives glaring at everything as if they’d never seen a freakin’ mall before, and—worst of all—the raucous teenyboppers and feral children darting in and out of the crowds like vicious rats. We parked somewhere near Sears and wandered in.
Guess what?
No motherfucking airconditioners.
“Sorry, dude,” drawled the red-aproned salesmoron propped up behind the Appliances Department counter. “Last one got bought this morning. Won’t be any more ‘til next week. You’re screwed.”
By this point, I didn’t have to worry about the heat outside—my internal reactor was melting down into a searing slurry of rage and any further disturbance would make me go Three Mile Island. Served me right, though, for waiting until the end of June, the beginning of the heighth of summer in southwestern Pennsylvania, to go looking for an airconditioner….Well. There was only one thing I could do: bury the claw end of a Craftsman guaranteed-for-life hammer in the forehead of the sarcastic drone behind the counter. But, no…that would be bad. “So what’re we gonna do?” Joe asked.
“Shit. Fuck. Let’s just go to the damn bookstore.” A few minutes in the Waldenbooks, flipping through magazines or prowling the sci-fi/fantasy shelves and inhaling the cool dry odor of printed paper would exorcise the demon of frustration rattling its cage inside me, jam the control rods back in before my blood started steaming out of my ears. Besides, Dominique worked there and she was kind of fun to talk to.
Now, Dominique was just this girl I knew from Cal U—not a friend, per se, just an acquaintance. A face with a name to go with it. She was kinda-sorta cute—midlothian, at best—with a rather thin, awkward figure, a mass of poodle-curly dark hair surrounding a round and slightly lopsided face, and an incredibly annoying squawky voice. She always looked like a frumpy young librarian trying her best to “dress sexy” in slightly-more-flattering Fashion Bug clothing while still remaining respectable and somewhat plain. Nothing to write home about, but certainly not loathesome. I’d gotten to know her a bit through Cal U’s radio station, where she’d been an occasional DJ while I was taking grad classes and working for the California University Times, whose offices were right across from the on-air booth. I think Joe originally introduced me to her one day in the Student Union, and I used to sometimes hang out in the on-air booth with her while she was doing her “Diamond Doll” show, playing her godawful R&B and classic hard rock music. She was one of those people good to help you kill a few idle minutes now and again with random smalltalk.
Eventually, she had to give up the radio show because her class load had grown too heavy (she was a dual chemistry/secondary-ed major who eventually wanted to be a highschool chem teacher), but one day I’d discovered her working at the Uniontown Mall’s Waldenbooks. Since I stopped in that store every few days to look around and feed by insatiable bibliophilic appetite, I’d gotten to talking to her a good bit and every now and again we’d jokingly flirt with one another. Nothing serious, mind you: as far as I knew, she was dating somebody, and I really didn’t care, anyway—I wasn’t the slightest bit attracted to her. Like I said, she was kinda-sorta cute, but did nothing for the ol’ wang. One factor that somewhat sullied her was that she had a bit of a “reputation” around campus, if you know what I mean…. Supposedly she’d nailed most of the Power 92 DJs, though none of them ever copped to it. Joe just thought she was a slamhog because she used to date some notoriously grody fellow by the name of Doctor Foulmouth: “Only a real slamhog would ever go out with that pile of shit,” he said. Well, whatever….She was just the girl at the bookstore I used to talk to. Whatever cooties she might have were certainly not communicable via just talking.
She was working at the Waldenbooks when Joe and I stopped in. “Oh, no, here comes trouble!” she squawked from behind the register. Over the past few months, I’d gotten to learn that she wasn’t all that fond of Joe, because…well, he’s Joe. I’m sure she was a bit alarmed to find both me and him there at the same time, considering that putting Joe and I together was tantamount to tossing a bottle of nitroglycerin into a nuclear reactor of Sheer Ignorance.
“Hey, Dominique,” I said as I walked over the magazine rack and began flipping through some music rag. “What’s happening?”
“Eh. The usual. Working to pay the bills. How about you?”
“I’ve been trying to find a goddamned airconditioner, but no luck so far. It’s my birthday, too.”
“Well, happy birthday, champ! How old’re you?”
“Twenty…uhhh, six.”
“What you gonna give Pegritz for his birthday, Dominique?” Joe said behind me. “Idaknow. Pegritz’s been asking for a good blowjob for months now.”
“Joe!” she snorted, rolling her eyes. “Not here!”
“What?! It’s all he’s been talking about—‘All I want for my birthday is to get my dick sucked.’ I’m telling you, he never shuts up about it, so…you’re his friend, right? You want to get him something nice, don’t you?”
“Bite me, Joe!”
“Urgh. No fuckin’ way. Not if you were the last woman on earth—but Pegritz’ll bite you: he doesn’t have any standards.”
“It’s true,” I said. “Well. I do have standards. They may be low, but….”
“So how ‘bout it, Diamond Doll? Make the man happy—he can’t find an airconditioner anywhere but at least he could get his—”
“Joe! I’m at work!”
“Okay, okay! Chill, woman. Just playin’ with you….”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”
Of course, during this entire interchange, I had my nose buried in a magazine, grinning like a jackal and snickering at the girl’s all-too-obvious discomfort. Joe was, for once, not being appreciably loud…that is, the various old ladies, moms’n’dads, and prepubescent Goosebumps-fanatics milling around weren’t freezing in their tracks, phizzes whacked into grimaces of alarm or amusement by the booming mention of the words “blowjob” or “dick.” Dominique’s pale skin was turning seven scarlet shades of mortified, and she kept glancing around in panic, thinking that he boss or one of her coworkers might overhear this…this…sasquatchewan heathen spouting such ignorance.
Joe wandered off, then, and Dominique leaned over and quietly mumbled, “Pegritz, keep your friend under control.”
“What the fuck am I supposed to do?” I laughed. “I was getting a kick out of the proceedings.”
“Well, you two behave, at least. Please?”
“Don’t worry, we won’t piss in the self-help aisle or molest any of the twelve-year-old girls back in the young adult section—it’s all good.”
“Oh, good. That makes me feel so much better.”
So Joe and I goofed around in the store for a while, scanning the sci-fi/fantasy and true crime shelves for anything that might spark our interests—but the Uniontown Mall’s Waldenbooks was little more than a clearinghouse for bargain-shelf cookbooks, bodiceripping romance novels for dreamy housewives desperate for any escape from their bigbellied husbands, and the usual smattering of run-of-the-mill bestsellers. Soon enough, we ended up back at the magazine rack annoying Dominique.
I wasn’t really paying attention, because Joe was now razzing her about some disgraceful rumor going ‘round about her and I was itching to hop back in the Jeep and head for Morgantown, where we’d planned to waste the remainder of the night playing NTN at the BW3 after I’d gotten my personal refrigeration unit. Suddenly, I heard, “So go out with Pegritz. Pegritz!”
“Huh?” I mumbled, not even looking over.
“Do you want to go out on a date with Dominique next week?”
“What?”
“I’m trying to set you up, here, you dummy! Just say yes.”
“Joe! I don’t need you to be my matchmaker,” Dominique huffed.
“Come on, Dominique—you’ll go out with anything that’s got a pulse, you know that—and last time I checked Pegritz had a pulse. What do you think, Pegritz?”
“Yeah, I still have a pulse.”
“Joe!”
“God, girl—I mean, I know Pegritz isn’t anything to look at, but, shit, it’s his birthday! At least say you’ll go out with him next week.”
“No!”
“Pegritz—you wanna go out with Dominique next week?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll go.”
“See? It’s the man’s motherfuckin’ birthday, at least say you’ll go out to dinner with him or something!”
“Okay, okay, okay!” Dominique shouted, flinging her hands up in surrender. “Yeah, I’ll go out to dinner with Pegritz.”
“You cool with that Pegritz?”
“Sure. Yeah. Whatever.”
“Allright, then—it’s settled. When do you get off work next week?”
“I don’t know yet,” she answered.
“Well, Pegritz can just stop up sometime over the week and find out.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Sure.”
“Then it’s settled. Next Saturday.”
“Fine,” Dominique sighed.
“Pegritz?”
“Cool by me.”
We spent a little while longer making the poor girl uncomfortable, then left. As we were shouldering through the sluggish mallcrowds on the way back to the Jeep, I asked Joe: “Dude, what was up with the yente bit back there?”
“The what?”
“Setting me up with Dominique.”
“Shit, man, I’m trying to get you laid for your birthday! You’re certain to score with Diamond Doll—she’ll put out for anybody, even you! I mean, she used to fuck Dr. Foulmouth. You’re
actually a step up.”
“Ha!” I laughed. “Whatever, dude….I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m a total weirdo. Like…well, everyone else.”
“Well, yeah, but she’ll still suck your dick. You know—”
“She may not be fuckable, but she sure is dick-suckable!”
“Precisely.”
“Eh. Idaknow. She doesn’t really do anything for me.”
“So what? You trying to not get your dick sucked?”
“You mean I should actually go out with her?”
“Well, shit, nigga—I wouldn’t’ve wasted all that time talking to her if I didn’t!”
“Allright, I’ll at least go hang out with her next Saturday. Or something.”
“You’ll thank me later.”
I did end up thanking Joe later…though, much later than that, I told him I would’ve thanked him more if he would’ve just wrapped his big hamsized hands around my throat and snapped my neck, dragged my body into the woods somewhere, and left it for the ‘possums.
Oh, and just remember, folks: this is just a first draft--so feel free to comment, proofread, suggest stuff, etc. Interact with your precious author, you ho's! I'll reward the best commentators with cookies and/or fellatio!
This tale is the miserable account of my first ever "relationship" with a real live girl...my first kiss in nearly seven years...my first taste of vagina and my first taste of venomous depression--the horrific four-month span of mental torture, bad drug reactions, serotonin cycling, and abject self-loathing that very nearly spelt the End of Your UnHumble Narrator and prettymuch set the tone for all the dating hells I explored for the next however-many years. It is a tale of truly gothick sadness, rage, hallucination, Sturm und Drang, psychosis, neurosis, conflict and destruction...and it begins NOW.
Ladies and gentlemens, I bring you chapter one of the Beginning of the End, the Twilight of the Idols, entitled--simply--
June 26th, 1999….On that day in the year of my alltime favorite Prince song, I turned twentysix years of age. The End Of Life As We Knew It—the Eve of Apocalypse—the Turn of Millenium—the much-vaunted and Jetsons-haunted «««YEAR 2000«««—Y2-fuckin’-K!—was less than six months away and I was so goddamned hot I felt like the seething summer atmosphere was sucking every last drop of water in my body out through my armpits and my back and from the no-man’s-land of the mysterious “taint” behind my nuts. The summer of ’99 had started out comfortable, but by the end of May the thermometers were bubbling up into the 90s, leaving me nauseous and feeling greasy as a plate of diner fries. By the end of June, the heat was unbearable. The sky was bleached white and the air was filled with steam. My house seemed to sponge up that humid swelter and trap it especially in my room, where at the end of the day the sun would glare in with a laserous intensity and heat that sodden atmosphere up to blastfurnace temps that no amount of fans in open windows could dissipate. I needed an airconditioner. Badly.
For my birthday, I’d gotten a hundredsome dollars from my mom and relatives: just enough, I figured, to get a small airconditioner just powerful enough to chill my little room down to a tolerable 60 degrees. I rang up Joe and asked if he wanted to roll up to Wal-Mart and help me pick out a decent cheap unit (that is, help me carry the damn thing—I could barely herc a bag of groceries up to my shoulders, but Joe could tote a small foreign car without breaking a sweat). He was game, so he came out to get me and we rode off in the Jeep. With the doors and the top off, the wind of our passage swirled around us with a wonderfully cooling force and we hung half-out of the vehicle as we sped along, swinging as much of ourselves into the full blast as possible….Ahhhhh. What an incredible feeling.
We stopped at Wal-Mart but—goddamn it—Wal-Mart had just sold its last airconditioner a few days before and wouldn’t be getting any more units in until the next week. “Well, suck a fuck,” I cursed. “That ain’t gonna do me any good—I’ll be dead of heat prostitution by next week!”
“There’s always KMart,” Joe suggested. “And Lowe’s, for that matter.”
“Let’s check KMart,” I growled. “Lowe’s is too fucking expensive, though. You can’t get shit there for under two hundred bucks, and I only have a hundred and twenty. They want thirty bucks and a piece of your left testicle just for a fuckin’ bag of tea-lights….”
KMart was a bust, as well—“We just sold the last of ‘em this morning”—and I was ready to take a fire axe to the forehead of the next fat, oily, bemulleted bastard I saw waddling along in the parkinglot since he or she had probably bought that last airconditioner to cool down his/her disgusting blob of a body. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to find an airconditioner until Joe mentioned Sears, at the nearby Mall. Of course! Sears! They always had cheap appliances there!
So off we went to the Mall. It was a Saturday afternoon, so naturally the Mall’s parkinglot was stuffed full of cars vibrating in the heatshimmer beneath the hot iron sky, every one of them the flagship of a crew of sweaty humans who could potentially be competing with me to land the Last Airconditioner in Fayette County. I was already in a bad, overheated mood, and I could only imagine how much worse said mood would turn once I was inside amongst the shuffling herds of Fayette County’s finest residents, the sluggish old codgers, the gigantic amorphous hillbilly families, the visiting out-of-state relatives glaring at everything as if they’d never seen a freakin’ mall before, and—worst of all—the raucous teenyboppers and feral children darting in and out of the crowds like vicious rats. We parked somewhere near Sears and wandered in.
Guess what?
No motherfucking airconditioners.
“Sorry, dude,” drawled the red-aproned salesmoron propped up behind the Appliances Department counter. “Last one got bought this morning. Won’t be any more ‘til next week. You’re screwed.”
By this point, I didn’t have to worry about the heat outside—my internal reactor was melting down into a searing slurry of rage and any further disturbance would make me go Three Mile Island. Served me right, though, for waiting until the end of June, the beginning of the heighth of summer in southwestern Pennsylvania, to go looking for an airconditioner….Well. There was only one thing I could do: bury the claw end of a Craftsman guaranteed-for-life hammer in the forehead of the sarcastic drone behind the counter. But, no…that would be bad. “So what’re we gonna do?” Joe asked.
“Shit. Fuck. Let’s just go to the damn bookstore.” A few minutes in the Waldenbooks, flipping through magazines or prowling the sci-fi/fantasy shelves and inhaling the cool dry odor of printed paper would exorcise the demon of frustration rattling its cage inside me, jam the control rods back in before my blood started steaming out of my ears. Besides, Dominique worked there and she was kind of fun to talk to.
Now, Dominique was just this girl I knew from Cal U—not a friend, per se, just an acquaintance. A face with a name to go with it. She was kinda-sorta cute—midlothian, at best—with a rather thin, awkward figure, a mass of poodle-curly dark hair surrounding a round and slightly lopsided face, and an incredibly annoying squawky voice. She always looked like a frumpy young librarian trying her best to “dress sexy” in slightly-more-flattering Fashion Bug clothing while still remaining respectable and somewhat plain. Nothing to write home about, but certainly not loathesome. I’d gotten to know her a bit through Cal U’s radio station, where she’d been an occasional DJ while I was taking grad classes and working for the California University Times, whose offices were right across from the on-air booth. I think Joe originally introduced me to her one day in the Student Union, and I used to sometimes hang out in the on-air booth with her while she was doing her “Diamond Doll” show, playing her godawful R&B and classic hard rock music. She was one of those people good to help you kill a few idle minutes now and again with random smalltalk.
Eventually, she had to give up the radio show because her class load had grown too heavy (she was a dual chemistry/secondary-ed major who eventually wanted to be a highschool chem teacher), but one day I’d discovered her working at the Uniontown Mall’s Waldenbooks. Since I stopped in that store every few days to look around and feed by insatiable bibliophilic appetite, I’d gotten to talking to her a good bit and every now and again we’d jokingly flirt with one another. Nothing serious, mind you: as far as I knew, she was dating somebody, and I really didn’t care, anyway—I wasn’t the slightest bit attracted to her. Like I said, she was kinda-sorta cute, but did nothing for the ol’ wang. One factor that somewhat sullied her was that she had a bit of a “reputation” around campus, if you know what I mean…. Supposedly she’d nailed most of the Power 92 DJs, though none of them ever copped to it. Joe just thought she was a slamhog because she used to date some notoriously grody fellow by the name of Doctor Foulmouth: “Only a real slamhog would ever go out with that pile of shit,” he said. Well, whatever….She was just the girl at the bookstore I used to talk to. Whatever cooties she might have were certainly not communicable via just talking.
She was working at the Waldenbooks when Joe and I stopped in. “Oh, no, here comes trouble!” she squawked from behind the register. Over the past few months, I’d gotten to learn that she wasn’t all that fond of Joe, because…well, he’s Joe. I’m sure she was a bit alarmed to find both me and him there at the same time, considering that putting Joe and I together was tantamount to tossing a bottle of nitroglycerin into a nuclear reactor of Sheer Ignorance.
“Hey, Dominique,” I said as I walked over the magazine rack and began flipping through some music rag. “What’s happening?”
“Eh. The usual. Working to pay the bills. How about you?”
“I’ve been trying to find a goddamned airconditioner, but no luck so far. It’s my birthday, too.”
“Well, happy birthday, champ! How old’re you?”
“Twenty…uhhh, six.”
“What you gonna give Pegritz for his birthday, Dominique?” Joe said behind me. “Idaknow. Pegritz’s been asking for a good blowjob for months now.”
“Joe!” she snorted, rolling her eyes. “Not here!”
“What?! It’s all he’s been talking about—‘All I want for my birthday is to get my dick sucked.’ I’m telling you, he never shuts up about it, so…you’re his friend, right? You want to get him something nice, don’t you?”
“Bite me, Joe!”
“Urgh. No fuckin’ way. Not if you were the last woman on earth—but Pegritz’ll bite you: he doesn’t have any standards.”
“It’s true,” I said. “Well. I do have standards. They may be low, but….”
“So how ‘bout it, Diamond Doll? Make the man happy—he can’t find an airconditioner anywhere but at least he could get his—”
“Joe! I’m at work!”
“Okay, okay! Chill, woman. Just playin’ with you….”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”
Of course, during this entire interchange, I had my nose buried in a magazine, grinning like a jackal and snickering at the girl’s all-too-obvious discomfort. Joe was, for once, not being appreciably loud…that is, the various old ladies, moms’n’dads, and prepubescent Goosebumps-fanatics milling around weren’t freezing in their tracks, phizzes whacked into grimaces of alarm or amusement by the booming mention of the words “blowjob” or “dick.” Dominique’s pale skin was turning seven scarlet shades of mortified, and she kept glancing around in panic, thinking that he boss or one of her coworkers might overhear this…this…sasquatchewan heathen spouting such ignorance.
Joe wandered off, then, and Dominique leaned over and quietly mumbled, “Pegritz, keep your friend under control.”
“What the fuck am I supposed to do?” I laughed. “I was getting a kick out of the proceedings.”
“Well, you two behave, at least. Please?”
“Don’t worry, we won’t piss in the self-help aisle or molest any of the twelve-year-old girls back in the young adult section—it’s all good.”
“Oh, good. That makes me feel so much better.”
So Joe and I goofed around in the store for a while, scanning the sci-fi/fantasy and true crime shelves for anything that might spark our interests—but the Uniontown Mall’s Waldenbooks was little more than a clearinghouse for bargain-shelf cookbooks, bodiceripping romance novels for dreamy housewives desperate for any escape from their bigbellied husbands, and the usual smattering of run-of-the-mill bestsellers. Soon enough, we ended up back at the magazine rack annoying Dominique.
I wasn’t really paying attention, because Joe was now razzing her about some disgraceful rumor going ‘round about her and I was itching to hop back in the Jeep and head for Morgantown, where we’d planned to waste the remainder of the night playing NTN at the BW3 after I’d gotten my personal refrigeration unit. Suddenly, I heard, “So go out with Pegritz. Pegritz!”
“Huh?” I mumbled, not even looking over.
“Do you want to go out on a date with Dominique next week?”
“What?”
“I’m trying to set you up, here, you dummy! Just say yes.”
“Joe! I don’t need you to be my matchmaker,” Dominique huffed.
“Come on, Dominique—you’ll go out with anything that’s got a pulse, you know that—and last time I checked Pegritz had a pulse. What do you think, Pegritz?”
“Yeah, I still have a pulse.”
“Joe!”
“God, girl—I mean, I know Pegritz isn’t anything to look at, but, shit, it’s his birthday! At least say you’ll go out with him next week.”
“No!”
“Pegritz—you wanna go out with Dominique next week?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll go.”
“See? It’s the man’s motherfuckin’ birthday, at least say you’ll go out to dinner with him or something!”
“Okay, okay, okay!” Dominique shouted, flinging her hands up in surrender. “Yeah, I’ll go out to dinner with Pegritz.”
“You cool with that Pegritz?”
“Sure. Yeah. Whatever.”
“Allright, then—it’s settled. When do you get off work next week?”
“I don’t know yet,” she answered.
“Well, Pegritz can just stop up sometime over the week and find out.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Sure.”
“Then it’s settled. Next Saturday.”
“Fine,” Dominique sighed.
“Pegritz?”
“Cool by me.”
We spent a little while longer making the poor girl uncomfortable, then left. As we were shouldering through the sluggish mallcrowds on the way back to the Jeep, I asked Joe: “Dude, what was up with the yente bit back there?”
“The what?”
“Setting me up with Dominique.”
“Shit, man, I’m trying to get you laid for your birthday! You’re certain to score with Diamond Doll—she’ll put out for anybody, even you! I mean, she used to fuck Dr. Foulmouth. You’re
actually a step up.”
“Ha!” I laughed. “Whatever, dude….I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m a total weirdo. Like…well, everyone else.”
“Well, yeah, but she’ll still suck your dick. You know—”
“She may not be fuckable, but she sure is dick-suckable!”
“Precisely.”
“Eh. Idaknow. She doesn’t really do anything for me.”
“So what? You trying to not get your dick sucked?”
“You mean I should actually go out with her?”
“Well, shit, nigga—I wouldn’t’ve wasted all that time talking to her if I didn’t!”
“Allright, I’ll at least go hang out with her next Saturday. Or something.”
“You’ll thank me later.”
I did end up thanking Joe later…though, much later than that, I told him I would’ve thanked him more if he would’ve just wrapped his big hamsized hands around my throat and snapped my neck, dragged my body into the woods somewhere, and left it for the ‘possums.
Oh, and just remember, folks: this is just a first draft--so feel free to comment, proofread, suggest stuff, etc. Interact with your precious author, you ho's! I'll reward the best commentators with cookies and/or fellatio!
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Date: 2005-10-20 02:42 am (UTC)Given that you've already promised me a lifetime of fellatio for correctly identifying a quote from an earlier post, will you make me chocolate chip brownies if I give good comment?
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Date: 2005-10-20 02:45 am (UTC)