It's 3 A.M.! Why are you even awake?Submitted by DaBeast at 2010-07-12 03:04:00 EDT
Rating: 0.55 on 16 ratings (16 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
She sat on the couch, slouched down into the cushions, legs levered up and feet dangling loosely before her without ever coming close to the floor. The couch, which was on the smallish side itself but could suck soul with a will right out through your ass, dropped her from a diminutive five feet nothing to the three foot range.
I laughed, "It must be cool to be short."
The world went still and even the refridgerator stopped running for a snapshot few seconds. I watched the hair prickle along Famine's arms as he looked at me with drop-jawed astonishment, heard the whistle of indrawn breaths that I knew came from the kids' rooms, felt a burning sensation against my cheek and turned to face the headlight beams of her silvery-blue eyes.
Dark auburn hair with gleaming silver woven through the strands slanting to the right across her forehead fell and obscured her gaze until she slowly lifted her little hand and pushed it aside. "Oh, wonderful. Short jokes." Dark lashes came closer together as her concentration narrowed upon me. "Please," her voice was low, warm, and it bekoned almost seductively, "tell me another short joke. How wonderously, fabulously original. It will only be the four-hundred-and-sixty-two-thousand-five-hundred-and-eighty-first short joke that I've heard." She paused for a heartbeat, "Today."
I can't help it, I can never help it, the bitch makes me laugh so that's what I did, I laughed and grinned as her ire rose in response.
She never just gets angry. She gets gloriously, maddeningly, spitefully, viciously, jump-up-hopping irate. She's like a firework that I can't stop setting off. The word "rant" does it no justice. The bad part - for her - is that those closest to her enjoy her particular style of ravening lunacy and we drop kick her in the psyche for shits and giggles because some of the shit that comes out of that woman is fucking hilarious.
She popped a Pall Mall and drew in a deep lungful, held it for a long moment, and then exhaled slowly. Her glare never left my face. "I am awash in an ocean of short jokes. Every Tom, Dick, or George Bush flies with the short jokes. There isn't a person on this planet that doesn't have a zinger to throw at my head." Her voice dropped an octave and dribbled scorn upon the floor, "I am drowning in short jokes so, please, add another drop. One more drop is not going to make one fucking bit of difference. I've not had it," she placed the side of her free hand against her throat and made a vague chopping gesture, "up to here with short jokes. The waves are about four feet above my head and THAT'S where I've had it up to with short jokes. At my age," she made a stabbing gesture at my chest, "you haven't had enough of short jokes."
She leaned forward, flipped the cigarette into her mouth, and clenched a fist. "You haven't," she smacked her closed fist into the palm of her other hand in time with her words, "had enough of short jokes." Here, she lowered her head and shook it while never releasing my eyes. "You've had enough," she moved her hands apart and mimed in a motion indicative of carelessly tossing something behind her, "of short jokes. They are less than nothing. They aren't original, they aren't funny, and the only people that engage in them are brainless, lackwit, twitfarts that couldn't find their own asshole with both hands and a map because they would be unable to read the map without a light stuffed into their cranially violated rectum." She lowered her voice into a loud but conspiratorial seeming tone, "Get some new material junior because your asshole will fall out if it gets another reaming and an asshole without an asshole is just about the sorriest thing I can possibly imagine."
"Can't be," I could not stop laughing, "because I know you've seen Famine naked."
She sat back, grinned and it was as glacier bright, hard and cold as her eyes. "All that tells me is that you haven't, junior. Else you'd be crying."
I sobered a little and Famine fell out of his chair, howling. Funny thing is, I couldn't stop grinning. I saw it coming.
"Yes," she sat back with a suddenly pleased manner radiating from her like moonlight, "he's hung like a moose." She looked over at him and her eyes were filled with a wicked gleam. "Too bad that moose is named Bullwinkle."
Famine got up and mock-bowed in her direction. "Thank yew," he did his best Bullwinkle and, I gotta say, it ain't a bad vocal, "and, now, a leetle poem." He stood straight, lifted a fist to his face, and mock coughed. Then he turned his head to one side, struck a pose, and recited, "Spider, spider on the wall. Haven't you any brains, at all? Can't you see that that wall has just been plastered?"
My turn to laugh. She nodded her head at him once in regal acknowledgment.
I said, in mock sadness, "Too bad you'd have to be a dinosaur to get that joke."
"So, now," she flicked an ash and every single ounce of it was filled with disdain, "I'm not just short but I'm old, too." When she looked at me, she quirked her left eyebrow and her lips thinned. "You remember that ocean of short jokes? It's on the planet of old-fart jokes." She brought one hand up and extended one finger to the side and twirled it. "Are we gonna get to the good, original material before my ancient little self expires? Or do I gotta die to hear that stuff?"
Famine perched on the arm of the couch and leaned down to her. "Doesn't he have to have good, original material before he can tell it to you?"
"Good point," she grinned. "I'm a fool. Originality goes hand in hand with genius or excellent PR, neither of which our friend possesses." She shrugged and looked up at him almost apologetically. "My bad."
And the conversation swam into other, less interesting channels for the rest of the evening but that part of it struck me so I've written it down for posterity or humiliation's sake or whatever reason.
Like it or hate it, I care not. You weren't there to enjoy it.