i am going to stand up while i take a shower.
given this information, and the danger inherent in it,
what i need from you
is your solemn vow
that, should i fall and impale my self on the faucet,
you will call laura
and—utilizing those evil,
machinations of your brain—
somehow trick her into entering my apartment
so that she is the one to discover my wet, bloody corpse.
this will be my ultimate revenge against her.
not only will she be overcome with grief at my death,
not only will she be racked with regret
over backing out of visiting me last week,
but she will actually stagger,
at the sudden and permanent realization that our love can never be.
surely, if nothing else,
my broken body will convey to her the myriad happinesses
we could have had together
if only she wasn’t her.
her knees will grow weak at the notion.
—and i feel we’ve been friends long enough that i can tell you this—
i am hung like a fucking whale.
i want her to know this, to actually know this,
to see my scrawny body, mangled and dead,
with the six pounds of flesh between my thighs still dangling,
until she is so overwhelmed
that she actually collapses to the ground and weeps,
a broken and useless woman forevermore.
i know this is a difficult thing to ask of someone,
but you are a terrible person.
she has a truly magnificent chest.
each heaving sob that you elicit
is one more moment in which you can stare at her tits
without fear of being caught.
consider this my gift to you, karl,
to make up for years of a one-sided, often thankless friendship,
and the fact that i still owe you three hundred dollars.
can you, will you do this for me?
Girls, Guns & Hot Rods:
by Jami Beck