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Saturday, January 07, 2006
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 THE GREATEST STORY EVER TOLD
Before you say anything, yes, I do know that the title of this post is usually associated with Jesus. But did Jesus ever go on at painful length about what a pathetic loser He was? Did He ever write glowing profiles about His favourite porn stars? Did He ever share His massive depressions and overall sexual frustration until you laughed so hard that you almost peed yourself?
No, Jesus didn't do any of those things. All He ever did was predict His own death and even a putz like me can do that! So fuck Jesus! I'm so much cooler than He is!
Although, to be fair, Jesus was a much better looking man than I am. But He had good genes. He was so good looking that hookers hung out with Him gratis and He could have a Saddam beard without anyone giving Him any shit. So, maybe I need to rethink my premise. Maybe I'm not as cool as Jesus. And let's remember, this was a guy who got nailed to a fucking cross!
As you may have guessed about me, I wake up everyday with a deep, consuming hatred of myself and everything around me. It's quite the feeling knowing that your day is only going to get worse from the second your eyes open. Consequently, I drink. A lot. Well, I don't drink at work, though I might start. Shit, everybody else there gets to. So, on my non-drinkee days I consume industrial amounts of codiene to help dull the agony of being me. I need something to help me face the small humiliations that each day is certain to bring.
Yesterday started off like most days. I awoke in a cold fury that an aneurysm hadn't taken me out in my sleep. However, I quickly manned up to the fact the fact that I was sentenced to yet another day of pointless, depressing frustration and I got ready to go to work.
During my hundred minute commute, I was lost in a deep fantasy wherein I fake my own death, flee to Paraguay and begin a new life as the world's ugliest giggalo. Of course, this isn't a new fantasy. It's one I've allowed myself since I was three years old. It has always calmed me and, for that, the fantasy is perhaps the single healthiest thing in my tawdry existence. By the time I arrived at work, I was resigned to my fate, and almost placid.
That's when I learned that today wouldn't be like other days. Oh no, it wouldn't be like other days at all.
Upon my arrival, I found that I had assigned to work with a nubile young lesbian. K is 18 and very open with her declarations of sapphic love. She also has a tight little body and a cute face.
K and I had never met before, but we hit it off about as well as a lesbian can with somebody with a penis. In fact, she thought I was funny. I know what you're thinking, "Gee, a hot young girl thinks skippy is cute and funny, but would never think of fucking him." And yes, it did feel like home. Of course, none of this stopped me from dreaming of competeing in a "pussy eat-off" with her. In my dream, the Rocky theme was blasting away as I recieved my gold medal.
At one point, K decided that she had to call this 47 year old guy that she has a flirtatious relationship with, but nothing more - or so she thinks. Ho, ho, I thought, this promises to be good.
As they were speaking on radio phones, I could hear both ends of the conversation, which lasted for over an hour. It was perhaps the single most insipid conversation that I have ever heard. I'll give the guy credit, he was fighting mightily to get himself laid, which is something that I have the highest respect for. The problem was that he was so stupid that made me look like the friggin' president of MENSA.
At one point, there was a break in the conversation, and I couldn't help but chuckle aloud. K look at me with a look of perplextion on her pretty face and asked what I was laughing at.
"Oh, I just think it's funny how thoroughly that guy thinks you're going to fuck him."
"Ugh. That's so not going to happen! Besides, he's like eighty! And 'Hello', I'm gay."
K always referred to herself as "gay." She never once used the word "lesbian", so I decided to use it as frequently as possible because, quite frankly, watching K wince was fun.
I looked at K with a look of astonishment on my face. "You really don't understand how men think, do you?", I asked with the most serious tone of concern in my voice.
"Hello," she responded. "I'm gay, remember?"
"Okay K, here's how it works. All men, homos excepted, view each and every woman we meet as a potential sexual conquest. We're not proud of it, but bitching about it is like hitting your dog with a newspaper for likcking his balls. It's just something we do, it's in our nature."
"But....but, I'm gay."
"Even better! See, if you're a guy over, say, thirty, then an 18 year old lesbian is like the Hope fucking diamond of poontang! You are officially the White Tiger on the safari that is your average male's sex life."
"What makes you think I'm going to let him crack me?"
"Well, let's start with the flirty conversation of the last hour and a half. Christ, if I were him, I'd think I'd be getting some and I'm about six times smarter than he is. Just wait, he'll hit on you openly before the night is out."
As much as she was disusted by this Universal Truth, she seemed to appreciate my honesty. Besides, I'm funny, remember?
And, by the time I left for the night, yes, he had openly hit on K. I am so smart. S-M-R-T!
Then there was the commute home. Which is where the Greatest Story Ever Told truly begins. For an idea of how nightmarish my daily journey to and from work is, look at this map. Then draw a diagnal line through it, from the northeast to to the southwest. While you do that, remember that Toronto is abut the size of Los Angeles. That, folks, is a big chunk of my day. Spent on public transit, because, hey, I'm a winner!
Anyhow, I got on the subway at about 12:30 this morning. About 10 minutes later, an incredibly beautiful young lady entered the same car, flopped down on the seat across from mine, and began fucking about with her cell phone. This girl looked exactly like Jessica Simpson, but had a more feminine face. Holy Christ, this girl was a walking fantasy! Okay, to be more exact, she was more of a stumbling fantasy, because she was very, very drunk.
She was seated, or rather, sprawled on one of those "back to back" seats so common on major metropolitian subway cars. On the other side, there was a Korean gentleman of about 50, who had his arm draped over the back of the seat.
Within about three minutes of sitting down, she grew tired and rested her head back. She must've had a hard day, poor thing. The problem was, she curled up in her seat and rested her head on the Korean's arm. The Korean looked at me with a look of , "What the fuck?" and I looked back at him thinking, "Enjoy it, you stuid prick!" However, not a word was spoken between us.
She must've sensed the Korean's discomfort, because she suddenly awoke and decided it would be fun if she made him really, really uncomfortable. Being that she looked exactly like Jessica Simpson, she had been making me uncomfortable for some time, but that was limited to my pants, which grew tighter with each passing moment.
I'll give her one thing (besides, of course, being unspeakably hot), she was very, very good at making the Korean uncomfortable. She turned in her seat and began an attempt at dialogue with him. She asked him several questions like if he had always lived in Canada, if not, where was he from and if he had ever met anyone like her before. He just sat there in stony silence, although he occassionally shot me a look of outright panic.
At various times, she looked to me as well. But she had a mischiveous look in her eye. We understood one another. We were indeed Partners in Crime. And the Korean was our victim. And our victim was growing more visibly uncomfortable by the second.
It was then that I understood the problem. The Korean was obviously a eunich! Sure, you don't hear a lot about 50 year old eunichs from Korea, but that's the most plausible theory I can come up with. Certainly, it's the most fun one.
As is true with most hot women, she didn't cotton well to being ignored by a middle-aged Korean in a New York Yankees touque. Accordingly, she decided to get right in his face. She did this by climbing over the back to back seat. Remember two things; I was across the aisle, and she was wearing very tight low-rider pants. The waist line of her pants was low enough to afford me a view of the top seven inches of her thong, nestled so beautifully between her magnificent ass cheeks as she climbed over the seat.
At that moment I understood that not only would I never forget her, I would always love her. Christ, if I had a boombox and a copy of Billy Vera and the Beaters "At This Moment" on hand, I would've proposed to her on the spot. I won't tell you what I would've proposed, but rest assured that it would've involved months of non-stop analingus.
For whatever reason, she grew weary of tormenting the Korean. She stopped trying to get his attention, got up and stumbled over to me. Throughout her tormenting the Manchurian Candidate, I was pretending to read the current issue of Rolling Stone, y'know, because I'm so mature.
She looked down on my literature and spotted a photograph of Mr. and Mrs. Kevin Federline. She smacked her forefinger against the image of K-Fed's skull and said, "I don't like HIM!" I replied that this proved that she was a reasonable young woman, because all right-thinking people know that Federline is a cancer on everything polite society knows to be True and Right.
She also pointed out that she wasn't very fond of Britney either, to which I replied that she had only become Hillbilly Royalty because she had a nice rack and a full set of teeth, a rarity in Lousiana. As you might guess, I was on seduction overdrive.
At Bay station, I stood as my departure point was nearing. I held onto the overhead hand rail, and she decided to hold on to me. She wrapped her arms tight around my girlish waist and rested her head on my chest, something I dearly love. She then looked up at me with her beautiful brown eyes and whispered, "Your breath smells like peppermints. I love peppermints."
The we arrived at Bloor/Yonge station, which was where I was supposed to get off anyway. She didn't give me that opportunity. Before I could break our embrace, she did, and took my hand and began running off of the car. She didn't know that this was my stop and apparently she didn't care. But she looks exactly like Jessica Simpson and therefore didn't have to care much about anything.
Once we were firmly on the subway platform, she let go of my hand, wrapped her arms around me again and said, "Let's make a BIG scene! Big scenes are fun!"
Who was I to argue? Firstly, she looked like Jessica Simpson. Second, the longer she let me follow her around, the longer I could stare at the black lace thong and spectacular ass. Besides, the big scene might just involve public sodomy. With this girl, you never did know. Furthermore, whatever happened, I knew it would make a great story for you teenagers.
So there we were on the Bloor/Danforth platform of Yonge/Bloor station. "Let's," she started, "begin with a hate scene." Then from absolutely out of nowhere, she screamed, "I HATE you, you son of a bitch!"
Of course, I just kinda stood there looking stunned. Mostly because I was. This was psychotic, yet exhiliarating at the same time. And to think I began my day by regretting the fact that an artery in skull hadn't exploded in my sleep.
Then she pulled me close, looked up in my eyes and yelled even louder and hollored, "But I LOVE you, you bastard!"
At that point, I had no choice but to join in. "I love you, too" I screamed, "you crazy bitch!" And at that point, I wasn't lying. Drunken Jessica Simpson look- alikes have odd effects on damaged, physically, emotionally, and mentally exhausted monsters.
This girl couldn't have fucking laughed louder. She then took me by the hand and started running me up the escalator. As she ran, her pants started moving lower and lower down her ass, and I fell deeper and deeper in love.
As we rode the escalator up, she squeezed my hand tightly and whispered, "Now we must go make a scene at the corner of Yonge and Bloor" (which is the busiest intersection in Canada.) As she was dragging me through the station, she told me that I was fun, not like her boyfriend.
And this is how my life works. How could she NOT have a boyfriend? After all, this is my life and things just work out that way. When things start looking good, they tend to turn to shit in a hurry. I'm just not used to them going downhill THAT fast.
Anyhow, we journeyed on. As we headed toward street level, she would release my hand and run up and hug complete strangers, including one gentleman who I have to assume was in his late seventies. And by the look on his face, it semed to be the best thing to happen to him in a long time.
Just before we hit the street, her cell phone fell out of her purse. I brought this to her attention, and she leaned down from her upper step, kissed me on the cheek and said, "you're so honest."
I told her that this was a charcter flaw of mine, which is true. Those of my readers who have actually met me will tell you that I'm not at all different in person than I am here. The fact that that person is a worthless fucking scumbag bereft of any socially redeeming value is beside the point. The fact is that I AM honest. The problem is that my honesty about what I am keeps biting me on the ass.
Note to self: change your entire personality. Become a lying scumbag. That's always worked out well for the lying scumbags I know, both professionally and personally. I might be a little old to pull it off, but I figure that if I work really hard at it, I can be a mean, bitter motherfucker in no time at all. Who knows? I might actually like myself then.
Oh, I just digressed in a big way, didn't I?
Once we hit the street, she hugged a bunch more people and told a couple of teenage girls that they were hot.
Then she pulled me close again, looked up into my hideous face and said, "I'm a stripper, you know."
"And probably the best stripper ever!", I replied.
Then she gave me her e-mail address and told me to get in touch with her, so that we might "get together and have fun." Then she ran off into the night.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I roll.
Which brings me to the picture at the top of this post. Yes, that's me. That picture was taken in Ann Arbor, Michigan about 15 months ago. You think that's ugly? Well, I've gotten 15 months older and uglier since then. I have a face that the cops who found Kurt Cobain's body would be sickened by and a body that would only look good on an autopsy table. And let's not even start with my fucking personality. There are at least three of my readers who can tell you how wonderful that is to be in a relationship with.
Which is where you teenagers come in. Following up on the e-mail invitation is all minuses and no pluses. No one understands that better than I do. I can't stress strongly enough just how drunk this girl was. I also can't tell you how surprised I was that the transit authorities didn't take our displays of faux affection as a kidnapping. Seriously, on the 1-10 hot scale, she's a 23 and I'm a negative six.
Assuming that she even remembers last night, I'm pretty sure that she's puking on her shoes at the thought of having anything approaching fun with a sub-human troll like me. I can tell you, beyond any reasonable doubt, that if I did take her up on her invitation and we met, she'd spend the time of our "date" together that was not consumed with her being sick to her stomach by kicking me ruthlessly in the balls.
On the other hand, I know how funny my personal humiliation is to read about. One way or another, the whole thing would make a hell of a post series. After all, this blog hasn't been big on silly concepts like personal dignity, and since I don't have much of it left in my life, I see no reason to start now.
I know that I called the post "the Greatest Story Ever Told" but I've been writing it off and on for the last 16 hours, and I've grown completely bored and depressed with it. I should cut to the chase. Do I follow up with the stripper and chronicle my sad social life for your entertainment or not? You can even vote in the comments.
The choice is yours.
PermalinkLabels: Life With skippy
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