Sunday, February 10, 2008

picnic patriotique



"Hurry up," said Natasia, "it's cold out here; and I don't know how much longer I can hold this cow."

"Quit being a queen," I said as I rubbed my hand back and forth, furious, "everytime you open your mouth I have to start over again."

Now where was I? Oh yes, "Ohhhoh sayyy caaan youu seeeee!"

"Godammit, Sherman, this thing just licked me! What's it doing? That's my nipple you little shit. OW! Sherman, this thing's trying to give me head!"

"Byyyy thee daaawn's eeaaarleeee liii...for fuck's sake! For fuck sake! YEAAAAH."

"It's about damn fucking time, Sherman. You and your kicks. If you weren't a genius musician and didn't get the best coke in town I don't know what I'd do. I like your mom too. She's not crazy like my psycho hellbitch of a mom. Can we go now? Can we get sushi?"

"Raw fish sounds retarded right now, Natasia. Let's get some soup. I'm really in the mood for soup. Minestrone."

Yeaaah. That felt pretty good.

"Put your clothes on Natasia, get your handbag, let's go before some crazy gay rancher tries to kick our asses. Leave the sheep. Let's go."

We grabbed our shit and split. I lit a cigarette, Natasia pulled her imitation designer sunglasses out of her Fendi bag, tromping her sinewy arms, legs stuffed into some five dollar thrift store cowboy boots, hair sweeping in the cool breeze smelling of three day old juniper berried tobacco smoke and lanolin.

Later we would rob a bank and fuck on top of 80 grand in the same motel that I lost my virginity in when I was twelve years-old. Her name was Tabatha. She was 42, beautiful, always wore this expensive fur coat made out of chinchilla or minx or something.

I liked the fact that her name was the same as that witch on tv, the one that twitched her nose, and that freak Darren was always such a putz; both the Dicks, losers, but Tabatha, now she was class.
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