“Motherfuckers want it, till they get it, then they don’t want it no more.” - James Axle
I felt the lump on my ass in the shower when I was washing my butt. I thought it was a tumor. I thought I was gonna die from ass cancer. I picture people falling out at my funeral, I wonder how many people’ll show. I remind myself to throw out the porn DVD’s in the dresser and to clear the hard drive before I die so my mom won’t have to see the shit I jerk off to. I’ll go back to Detroit to spend my last days, my job’ll probably hold a memorial. By the time I’m out the shower I’ve come to terms with my death.
Ass cancer takes me out.
Went to the doctor that Thursday, turns out it wasn’t cancer at all, it was hemorrhoids. Bad. My hemorrhoids had hemorrhoids. And now he’s got to cut me.
He explained to me exactly what was going on with my anus but I really couldn’t follow cuz right before the explanation, he’d been raping my asshole with his fingers and cameras and metal rods.
The whole experience made me rethink throwing my finger up a chicks asshole without warning mid-coitus. I probably won’t do that anymore. If I do, I’ll probably spit on it first.
Back in the day, I was reckless with that butt hole shit. I tried to sodomize every single girl I fucked. Not because it felt good mind you, it feels OK. Pussy feels better and there’s some down sides, like sometimes they don’t like it or I would often up with shit on my dick - it’s par for the course.
Me, I did it for the power.
Why do you climb the mountain? Because it’s there.
If I’m gonna fuck, I wanted my dick to hit every one of her orifices. So when I saw her months later at the mall with her new man and we were all smiling and nodding and and making niceties. I’d be looking at her thinking, ‘I was up in your butt hole fuckin’. You let him put it there yet? Probably not. Great to see you.’
And then it was off to Marshal’s to buy Nautica shirts on clearance.
I stopped trying to sodomize chicks when I stopped going to the mall and chilled out with my anger issues. I mean if she wants me to fuck her there, sure I will, that’s hot, whatever you want, I’m game. But if I see a dude who’s way into fucking girls in the butt I just figure he’s gay.
Speaking of gay, I don’t think I’ll be that either cuz I sure did hate when that guy shoved all those things up my butthole and then cut shit out of my ass and left me there bloody on the gurney. The irony is, these last few weeks, I been wanting to get my hands on some Vicodin, well now I get it.
Be careful what you wish for.
I’m on Vicodin now. I been on it these past three days. I keep taking it so I won’t shit. I’m afraid to. Vicodin and tighty whities with a maxi-pad shoved in my ass crack cuz I’m leaking blood and my mom keeps calling me to see if I’m alright.
I am I just walk funny.
Kev took me to the Dodgers game yesterday. It was nice to sit out there in the sun nodding off on opiates while the Cubs whooped the Dodgers ass. It was fun till some piece of shit frat boy, day trader, Dodgers fan started talking shit to us.
The motherfucker’s talking bout, “Douche-bag Cub fans in front of him” and shit like that. Started bragging about what celebrity their center fielder was fucking, like we give a shit.
He said he was being funny.
I told he wasn’t funny and to stop talking to us.
He starts talking about my accent and his eyes are wild like he’s gonna do something, talking to me like he knows karate or some shit.
I’m like, “Brah chill out and shut up talking to us.”
He’s like, “Brah brah brah. Why you talking like that brah?
“Cuz I’m from Detroit brah, I’m not even a Cubs fan. I just don’t like you, so don’t say shit to us.”
And that’s it. That’s the best I can come up with? Mr. Rude Jude, Mr. Get Paid To Talk Shit? All I got is “don’t say shit to us” and go on to explain my accent and where the fuck I’m from?
Pah-fuckin-Thetic.
Jesus Christ.
This Vicodin has dulled my razor sharp wit.
And he keeps on talking and I’m staring him down. Then I’m arguing and I’m not very good at it but I’m not gonna stop and my friends are telling me to chill.
He’s still calling us douche-bags and calling me wiggers. He ain’t hurting my feelings, it’s just he keeps on yapping and I can’t shut him down. I’m getting owned by a fucking frat boy, date rapist at the ball game and it’s irritating the shit out of me.
The only thing left to do is punch him in the face but let’s be real, I’m not a fighter and I’m not about to start fighting doped up on Vikes at god damn baseball game of no consequence to me. And so it continues.
Then I see my opening, sitting to the left of him is his lovely and quite fuckable wife. What I see on her fucking thighs and what she sees every day when she gets out of the shower is cellulite. I see some cellulite on them fucking thighs.
So I say something like, “Blah blah blah look at the scoreboard loser, fuck you blah blah blah, with your chubby ass wife.”
And his face breaks and I see it so I keep going. “You need to stop rooting against us and start rooting against her eating all them hot dogs at the game cuz she’s getting fat.”
I found that soft spot. And his homeboy jumps in like, “Whoa whoa we don’t need to be talking about people’s wive’s.
I ignore him and keep calling her fat and ugly and he’s trying to say shit back, but it doesn’t matter what he says cuz I keep on disrespecting him and his woman’s honor and he ain’t doing a fucking thing.
Now I’m pointing at my mouth smiling.
He says, “What the fuck is that? All I see is an ugly red beard.”
I say, “That’s me smiling. I live in your head now. Cuz you know your wife is getting fat and every time she gets seconds on some food or gets desert and you tell her not to. You’ll be thinking about me.”
It’s true he will be, he’ll be thinking about me when he sees that cottage cheese on her legs and when she’s feeling fat and has to reassure her. And I bet she won’t be wearing those shorts again anytime soon.
Fuck ‘em. That’s what she gets for being married to a douche-bag.
And now he ain’t talking as much as he was before and his wife is whispering for him to just calm down and to drop it and it’s OK and she knows she’s not fat.
I’m sitting in front of them sipping my lemonade, watching the game, bleeding into my maxi-pad and I’m smiling baby, I’m smiling.
