AND THE BITCH IS ON THE FLOOR TALKING ABOUT, ‘Call the police! Someone please call the police!’ And I say, ‘bitch, you better shut the fuck up!’ And the fucking owner Ray is yelling at the bouncers, ‘Don’t let those freaks in here again!’ Motherfucker, we wouldn’t come back to your shit hole if it were the last club on earth! “Fuck the beach!” I yell as they throw us out. It’s a lame town if Rhonda ain’t here and they all know that shit! My friends and me just might stay home from now on.
So we say fuck that joint.
“Fuck that joint!” Bebe says.
“Fuck that joint!” Jane says.
“Fuck it!” I say.
“Fuck that joint!!” we all say, together, in harmony.
So Bebe says let’s go to Club Deep where we’re big fish in a tiny pond. I agree. Jane agrees. We’re heading for booty music land but decide to stop at the Irish pub and have three beers each, one apple Martini each. It’s the World Cup in France and a couple of games are on. An Irish man from Guatemala tries to chat my ear off about the game.
“I used to play in Qesaltenango. Quite good I was. My pa was a big fecking wanker who only believed in work, so I had to quit. Spent the rest of my days with a bottle, I did. So, where you fine ladies from?” he asks as he is feeling up on my leg. Horny old fool. If he feels long enough he’ll get a surprise.
“I’m from Wisconsin,” says Bebe. That lying bitch is from Philadelphia. “I grew up in a farm. I fell in love with Miami the first time I heard the name ‘Miami.’ Say it.”
“We had a farm,” the Irish man says. “With lots of cows and sheep and chickens. I fecking hated it. All that labor? Are you kidding me? You don’t have sheep in America do you?”
“Say it! ‘Miami!’ Yes we do. We had cows and pigs and bulls.”
I laugh. Bebe slaps me on the arm. Jane can’t keep from laughing either.
“Did you ever fuck a chicken?” I ask the Irish man in jest.
He smiles. His hand is going higher up my leg.
“Of course I feckd’ a chicken!” he yells, slamming his free hand on the bar.
We laugh. Every one laughs. Jane is on the floor. Bebe is disgusted.
“You fucked a chicken?”
“Yes I did. I feckd’ lots of chickens. All boys on the farm had to feck at least one chicken. It’s common knowledge.”
I look at Bebe. “Did you ever fuck a cow? It’s common knowledge.”
The Irish man’s hand is up my skirt and when he feels my very “hot” dog his eyes begin to tear up. He jocks it one time and his drunken ass falls on the floor. We laugh like schoolgirls pointing fingers.
Pretty soon we are on our way to dance hall land when we run into Mary Misery going the opposite direction. Her blue mascara is running.
“What is wrong?”
“Why are you crying?”
“Are you crying?”
“Why are you crying?”
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Springtime for Papa:
by Steven Gulvezan
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