A Gift and a Curse

A blessing came in the form of A horrible, two-hundred-some pound woman sitting on the arm of a couch in a skirt that would still be inappropriate for a woman half her size if it were twice its length. Each time she bellied up to the bar her horrible pinched mouth with lip-stick applied by David Lynch would order a Vodka and the nowedonthavevodka youdonthavevodkawhatkindofbardoesnthavevodka would volley. She would then return to the arm of the couch and with the grace of a newborn calf splay her legs so her Amstel Light-loving troglodyte could ham-fistedly fondle and poke at the considerable mound barely contained by the tiger-print panties. “Thank God for her,” I say to Kemp. “You’re going to coast through this next year of celibacy.”

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  1. We’re all oozing class. I’m with her. What the fuck kind of bar doesn’t have vodka?

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