I didn't expect to run into you at the laundry mat Sunday eve. You didn't seem...the type. Not in these parts. Cast wrong. Young, attractive, plain jogging pants.
No slogans like "whore" written across the ass of your pink sweats. But it was your feisty spirit that ultimetly complimented my lead in this movie. Action!
Scene starts as it always does. I am he who cares the least. Of course that game is really only nominally successful when others are also engaged. Right now it's just the two of us and the sun is setting.
Time to slip into the lone unisex restroom. What can I say, I too loathe performing my necessaries in public but any time I can save on toilet paper back at the ranch, I'm in.
You wrapped your fist against the restroom door like you meant business. I was instantly erect. "Hey, are you the asshole who took my clothes out of the dryer and put in your own?...WTF dude?"
I was low on quarters. Wall St. bail out and all. "I don't much care for your tone", I replied, "Also I am at a severe disadvantage being presently number 2 occupado."
You were none amused. And thus began the exchange thru the heavily graffitied door.
"What if it was your stuff, huh? How would you like it if it was your quarters!?"
Shame I get, but guilt is a feeling we narcissists have no experience with. "Now I do not entertain hypotheticals. The world as it is, is grievous enough!"
"Dude, I'm am going to put my foot up your ass when you come out. So you best wipe gingerly and with purpose!"
"Now I will have you know sassy that I once killed a man over a trifling dispute concerning a pocket knife!" Flush for emphasis.
A scream. The sound of dryer doors slamming. Silence. And then what I could only suspect was the sound of my clothes being tossed onto varying parts of the laundry mat. Once I came out, 30 minutes later, this would prove to be the gist of it.
Presently I noted the toilet paper roll was dangerously close to empty.
"I ought to smash your head and parole you to Jesus, you thieving, low company, malefactor." A kick to the door. A jingle of an outer door opening. The rev of an engine. And then nothing.
So the moral of this here tale is that I did indeed have enough toilet paper to write my digits on, which I duly left for you to find, this post also not withstanding. And beware wrong casted supporting actresses. They can steal the scene.
N.
No slogans like "whore" written across the ass of your pink sweats. But it was your feisty spirit that ultimetly complimented my lead in this movie. Action!
Scene starts as it always does. I am he who cares the least. Of course that game is really only nominally successful when others are also engaged. Right now it's just the two of us and the sun is setting.
Time to slip into the lone unisex restroom. What can I say, I too loathe performing my necessaries in public but any time I can save on toilet paper back at the ranch, I'm in.
You wrapped your fist against the restroom door like you meant business. I was instantly erect. "Hey, are you the asshole who took my clothes out of the dryer and put in your own?...WTF dude?"
I was low on quarters. Wall St. bail out and all. "I don't much care for your tone", I replied, "Also I am at a severe disadvantage being presently number 2 occupado."
You were none amused. And thus began the exchange thru the heavily graffitied door.
"What if it was your stuff, huh? How would you like it if it was your quarters!?"
Shame I get, but guilt is a feeling we narcissists have no experience with. "Now I do not entertain hypotheticals. The world as it is, is grievous enough!"
"Dude, I'm am going to put my foot up your ass when you come out. So you best wipe gingerly and with purpose!"
"Now I will have you know sassy that I once killed a man over a trifling dispute concerning a pocket knife!" Flush for emphasis.
A scream. The sound of dryer doors slamming. Silence. And then what I could only suspect was the sound of my clothes being tossed onto varying parts of the laundry mat. Once I came out, 30 minutes later, this would prove to be the gist of it.
Presently I noted the toilet paper roll was dangerously close to empty.
"I ought to smash your head and parole you to Jesus, you thieving, low company, malefactor." A kick to the door. A jingle of an outer door opening. The rev of an engine. And then nothing.
So the moral of this here tale is that I did indeed have enough toilet paper to write my digits on, which I duly left for you to find, this post also not withstanding. And beware wrong casted supporting actresses. They can steal the scene.
N.
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