Saturday, 15 January 2011

My Speed Dates


— I get aroused by hardship.
— What?
— Struggle. Poverty. Difficulty. Gets me all lathered up.
— Does it now?
— Oh yeah. For example, Stan called me last week – that’s my ex-husband Stan.
— Right.
— So Stan calls to tell me he’s been evicted and he’s living with his grandmother. He says he rubs her bunions in return for free lodging and meals. Says he’s taken up heroin.
— Blimey.
— I know. Thing is see, I hear his weedy whiny voice and I get these prickly arms, my heart starts thumping.
— That’s sick.
— I know. So I tell him to come over and we do it for seven hours and I send him packing. He started talking about moving back in and he still loves me and all that horseshit.
— Loser.
— That’s the thing: I only like him as a loser. I don’t want him doing well. I want him popping his granny’s blisters and entering a downward spiral of depression and addiction that sends him teetering to the brink of insanity, culminating in his suicide.
— You should see someone about that.
— Why? It’s only a bit of fun.
— So, like . . . do hobos turn you on?
— Oh, don’t get me started on hobos. Grubby little darlings.
— You really have gone a bit weird.
— There’s one in my bathroom now. I told him he could take a shower as long as he scalds himself in the process. If he’s burnt and achy afterwards, I’ll offer him my love.
— Well, have a good time.
— Thanks. Where you off to?
— I’m going to speak to someone else. It’s been nice meeting you.
— Likewise.


— I love Peruvian literature, don’t you?
— No, not especially.
— Oh, come on! You must’ve heard of Chavez Horatio Dómingo? Are you kidding me?
— Did you make that name up?
— Yes. Sorry.
— Why?
— I wanted to . . . I don’t know. Tell me about yourself.
— I’m normal. I occupy small rooms and peer strangely into mirrors.
— Cool.
— So. What about you?
— Oh, you know. I’m your regular Persian ex-pat with a dog and a lame granddad. You know, living in a basement with his de Sade books and his whips and his garters.
— Right. Do you like it there?
— I don’t mind it. He doesn’t speak anymore. Thinks lips are liars.
— Did he tell you that?
— No, he doesn’t speak.
— What do you think about lips?
— I like their functionality. How about you?
— I like them. They work better in contact with other lips.
— Hmm?
— In contact, um . . . with other lips.
— Oh, you mean kissing? I see, I see. I don’t like kissing. You can get syphilis from kissing.
— It’s been lovely meeting you.
— Oh . . . you too.


— Did you see it last night? I couldn’t believe Mark got evicted.
— See what?
— You mean you didn’t see it? Oh come on! That was totally unfair. That boy has lungs of golden honey.
— What boy?
— When he did that disco funk version of Candle in the Wind. I was like . . . weeping.
— Who did what?
— I was on the floor with my ankles around my neck spitting ooze from my lazarette.
— What?
— So what did you think of Christy? I mean, I dug the shoulder pads and Nixon facemask, but I don’t think the world is ready for a skinhead ska singer doing anti-Vietnam rants.
— Indeed.
— And that Kelsey, what a berk! I mean, does the world need another walrus with polystyrene tusks strumming on the ribs of a dead mariner while beating a xylophone to death with his concrete rump?
— No, I suppose not.
— So what about you?
— What about me?
— What about you?
— About me?
— You, what?
— Me, what?
— You.
— Me.
— . . .
— Have a nice night.


  1. Thinks lips are liars. Great. I loved every line of this. more more more more

  2. You are genius. Will be smiling for the rest of the day (bunions and heroin?, lips?, you, me, what?)
    The Middle Ages

  3. BUWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! So are you seeing any of them again *snort*

    I think I went through that phase Anne is in. A one-legged guy covered in tattoos helped me work through it. (I'm serious)

  4. Chris: I like this little dialogue format. More to come.

    Barb: Glad to have you smiling. Just lay off the heroin. :)

    Tart: Schadenfreude is sexy.