“Draggin’ the Balls ‘n’ Chain”
Two people. Two genders. Two dinner dates. Two entirely different ideas about how well those dinner dates went. For my part (me being one of the two people) (who had one of the two genders) (i.e. male) I felt both dinner dates went absolutely swimmingly. Natasha De Nasha, on the other hand (being the other person) (and having the other gender) felt that the dates didn’t so much “go swimmingly” as they did “splash around feebly before drowning in their own vomit.”
Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but that sounds like an opinion that needs CORRECTING. Because it’s WRONG. I mean, I don’t exactly know which two dinner dates Natasha De Nasha went on, but the two I went on went on well.
Still… Perhaps it all depends on whose feet you’re standing in. Or on. If you were standing on my feet (for example) then I’d be able to blame YOU for obstructing my vision when I bowled the bowling ball at the bottles in the bar fridge instead of bowling it (as the hindsight heroes now tell me I should’a done) at the so-called “pins” down the end of the so-called “alley”. On the other hand, if you were standing on my date Natasha’s feet, then I prob’ly would’a bowled the bowling ball at YOU instead– ’cause I don’t want anyone gettin’ up close ‘n’ pervable to m’ Womyn!
All this makes a man (i.e. me) wonder if Natasha De Nasha may have been… I dunno… less grouchy during (and after) the dinner dates if she actually had the chance to EAT SOMETHING before we got kicked- and/or chased out of them. After all, eating something is one of the main reasons for going on a dinner date. I’m told.
Anyway, Natasha would not give me a third-time-lucky-date unless I promised I would behave– but being a Man of Honour I couldn’t make such a reckless promise. I’m afraid it’s physically impossible to (quote) “behave” when the whole damn world is messin’ around around me, and I jus’ keep gettin’ frog-marched into trouble.
There was one “dood” in particular, in this messed-up, messin’ around world who had a strong urge to be frog-marchin’ folks, I might add. I mean, of course, the same dood who came knockin’ at my door the other day. When I opened up, I found myself affronted by the fugliest-looking “female” I’d seen since I last attended a Gender Studies lecture… where… umm… I learnt that fugliness is in the eye of the sexist beholder. But WOOO!! Did that “sister” at the door make the non-sexist eye of this beholder steam up with horror!
I even screamed a little.
NOTE: Before my beloved Comradettes (the femo-trolls) lumber out from under their cyber-bridge and start nanny-goat-gruffin’ me again, might I point out (or “at”) the GRAMMAR that I have injected into my language. Yes, yes, I realise that grammar is old news these days– but some time it help us. Like when one employs quote marks as Muffs on the Ears of words like “female” and “sister” and “her” (see above). What I’m saying is, that fugly “chick” at my door– while definitely fugly– was definitely not any true chick at all. She was, in fact (hold onto your hand-bags) Uncle Mike Spilligan– IN A DRESS!!!
GOTT IN HIMMEL!!!
What sort of a topsy-turvy world are we living in these days, Reader? One where a two-fisted ladies man turns up on my doorstep dressed as a TWO-FISTED LADY??
It was a moment or three before my eyes adjusted to the walking, talking DAYMARE they saw in front of ’em. Even then it wasn’t my eyes that recovered first– it was my ears. They heard this… this… transhuman BEAST (whose lipstick was put on so clumsily it looked more like chin-stick) say the words those aforementioned ears were not pricked up to hear.
“Duncan,” s/he said, in a dark brown voice. “It’s moi. Uncle Mike.”
“BULLSHIT, man!” I said in both a) denial; and b) shock.
“No, truly,” said the monstrous parody of not only a female, but also a transgender… female. “I’ve disguised myself as a Gorgeous Blonde.”
“Well…” I said. “You’re a blonde, anyway…”
“Oh, be serious!” Mike hissed, flirtatiously. “You never would’a picked me for a boy, would you?”
“Mike, YOUR BALLS ARE VISIBLE THROUGH THOSE LYCRA TIGHTS!!’ I pointed out. “All THREE of ’em!”
“Yair, but apart from those two (or three) minor details, I’m a bit of awright, arn I? Ay? AY??”
Erk. I dunno ’bout a “bit of awright”, but a bit of SICK rose up in my throat when I heard him say that. The same sort of sick that comes up when you’ve eaten too much porridge and you burp. Anyway, there was at least one question that I wanted an answer for: Why wasn’t he in prison as nature intended? He reminded me about all the Unwelcome Queries he met with in there, and said they were the reason he busted out.
With only fourteen minutes left on his jail sentence.
That’s right. Uncle Mike was less than a quarter of an hour away from Liberation Time. But so annoyed was he– in his no-nonsense way– by those unwelcome (and yes, it should be said: penetrating) Queries that he disguised himself as a… female-ish… visitor and MINCED RIGHT OUT THE GATE!!
Oh, that impatient fool! FORDEEN MINUTS?? That’s all the time he had left?
And yet… when you’re a convict with your heart set on escaping, even your impending release will not stand in the way of you achieving that goal. And for that we must salute him.
(N-e-e-e-ever seen a chick that ugly, though.)