I told Dan that I was going with a friend of mine for vegan pizza and to see live music and he responded, “Good luck.” I consider myself a fairly sharp-minded person but I had to go to my mental database and filing cabinet and card catalogue to figure out this one. Thank God I had recently updated my brain to Windows Brain Version 10.0 or I would still be using that scientific calculator that I had for some science class back in high school, which only proved useful to me in that I was able to slide a cheat-sheet in the flap of that geeky thing.
Perhaps he was worried that when I got to the vegan pizza place I would stumble on my words when giving my order and, like the Soup Nazi from “Seinfeld,” the man behind the counter would shout, “NO PIZZA FOR YOU!”
Or maybe Dan feared the Weimer Germany Depression that our economy is inevitably plunging towards has already affected the street so badly that I would receive my pizza and ask, “What the hell is this?” and be told, “It’s vegan,” to which I’d respond, “This is nothing but dough—no sauce, no toppings—which I could almost forgive if you at least gave me a smile when you handed it to me,” to which he would reply, “I’m upset I didn’t vote for McCain,” to which I’d reply, “They’re both New World Order Scum,” to which he’d reply, “I know, but his wife is better to look at than that butt-ugly Michelle,” to which I’d reply, “Well played, vegan pizza man, well played.”
Maybe Dan thought the unknown accordion player we were going to see would sell out and they would have to turn us away. Or maybe, being the confrontational pain-in-the-ass that I am, he figured I would challenge the one drink minimum rule and the result would naturally lead to me urinating on the stage, shorting out the accordion player’s amp, resulting in a blackout with the constant outcry of, “It smells like piss in here!” penetrating the darkness.
I finally gave up, cursing Bill Gates all the way, thinking he should have stuck with what he’s good at—supporting eugenics and the elite agenda to get rid of 85% of the population while appearing to be a pimple-faced, world-loving philatelist—and asked Dan what the fuck he meant.
“Good luck with the girls.”
Instead of being like the little child who keeps asking, “Why?” “Because Daddy didn’t use a rubber.” “Why?” Because he was trying to commit suicide and thought your Mommy was a skanky bitch who would give him the AIDS.” “Why?” I put off asking what his follow-up statement meant and instead I went back to my crashing, freezing Brain Computer, thinking how much higher my I.Q. would have been if I hadn’t received all those mercury-laden, brain-numbing vaccinations when I was a baby.
If someone asks, “How are the boys doing?” they are inquiring about your testicles. By that reasoning, I deduced, “the girls’” meant my labia lips. But I don’t have a vagina, well not one that isn’t made of latex, that is, and it would make no sense for Dan to ask me how it was, being that he had borrowed it last month and still hadn’t returned it. Note to self: make sure to get rubber vag back from Dan…and to soak it in hydrogen peroxide for at least a day. Maybe he was referring to my 23 illegitimate children that I spawned touring with the musical “Hair” in Europe, a percentage of whom the law of probability would predict to be girls. Risking a MORON sticker slapped onto my forehead I asked, “What do you mean?”
“You know, picking up girls.” No, I didn’t know. When I said, “Vegan pizza and live music,” I meant eating some vegan pizza and listening to live music. I felt like the gay man at the water cooler as the gang of heteros comment with adoration about the huge knockers on the new girl, “They’re like a couple of massive fun bags that despite not being filled with candy or toys are still quite fun”…“They’re like two speed bags but instead of punching them, I’d like to suck on them—and then maybe punch them”…”I’d like to hang my shirt up on that rack, and by shirt I mean penis and by rack I mean boobies,” and all I could come up with was, “They will provide some baby with a lot of milk one day.”
Although the length of my penis still hangs lower the drop of my nutsack, perhaps I have lost my libido, because when I say something like, “I’m going to the Korean Market to buy some bananas,” I don’t mean I’m going to see if I can pick up a girl in the two blocks from my apartment to the store and back—I mean I’m buying some fuckin’ bananas!