Overheard in my brain earlier tonight:
"That was too gross. I've finally chosen my side of the fence--I think it should be illegal to fry shrimp."
"What? Why?" She says ignorantly, while wearing an unfortunate sweater and smelling badly.
"Because it tastes like high-calorie, deep-fried, buttered bread crumbs and when I order shrimp, I want to taste fresh, delicious shrimp, not something worse than frozen fish sticks. And no tax-paying (throw the rest in the fire and dance around it while drinking Cuban rum and failing to convince the last two local Homecoming Queens to check out the upholstery in the backseat of my fully-restored-by-somebody-I-hired GTO) citizen should be allowed the option of eating that shit."
"Kiss me, Roderick..."
Especially fond of the parenthetical segment of my last ejaculation, she melted into my arms like I Can't Believe It's Not Butter on a delightfully pockmarked ear of Indian corn roasting over the space heater in your low-rent-but-tastefully-decorated-if-never-even-dusted-and-kinda-grimy-Flatbush-third-floor-walk-up-Nevada-whorehouse of an apartment. It was totally radical.
Meanwhile, I stared--unblinking--into the clogged pores on the nose of a termite on the left posterior heel of her soft-coated schnitzel hound, who was sitting just across the room, in the darkened doorway to my sanctuary, and my eyes grew more dangerous with each passing breath.
Anything was possible.
_
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