Streets—1st
MoTW—Repo! The Genetic Opera
The woman and I were heading home after a horrible experience at the
grocery store (a story for another day) a week or so ago and when we
passed a gas station she started complaining about the price which had
fallen to $1.77 from the $1.82 she had paid there the night before.
Ever the caring person, I told her to never get gas until the next day
since the price might be lower. She laughed at this, but I didn't think
she would actually follow through on it.
A couple days later I got a call as I was warming up the oven for
popcorn chicken night. It was the woman and she was freaking out. She
had run out of gas because she had actually listened to something I had
said.
She demanded that I put some clothes on (hey, I like cooking in the
nude) and bring her some gas. I told her that wasn't possible since I
was cooking popcorn chicken. She ranted and raved a bit more until I
reminded her about the roadside assistance she gets with her car so she
tossed out the famous "Whatever" response and ended the conversation.
Yeah, like I'm at fault for her Corkiness.
The oven was now warmed up so I popped the chicken in and waited for the
twelve minutes the package says is needed so I don't vomit and have the
runs and other things that could mean you haven't cooked your stuff
enough.
Twelve minutes went by and I took out the chicken, dumped the tasty
round morsels on a plate, spilled an ocean of ranch dressing on top,
grabbed the latest edition of Life magazine and started eating.
I was about halfway done with my dinner and the magazine (Kennedy was
shot??!! Wow. Wonder who's the next president?) when the woman came
home.
She was very silent as she went through the mail so I thought she
figured she was in the wrong about the gas thing so I got back to my
reading and munching.
Well, I guess she took my interest in the magazine and chicken as
disinterest in her and she started screaming at me about not caring and
all sorts of other shit, all while I had a ranch dressing smeared
popcorn chicken bit speared expertly on the fork and heading towards my
mouth.
Needless to say, her raised voice caused me to lose concentration and
the popcorn chicken never made it to my waiting mouth. Instead I poked
the fork into my cheek and when I regained my composure, I checked the
fork and the chicken bit was gone.
My dinner ruined, I picked up the plate, threw it at the dining room
wall and went to bed filled with disgust mixed with a half plate of
popcorn chicken.
The next morning I woke up and went to the bathroom to take my daily
pee. Done with that (the burning has really lessened recently), I looked
at myself in the mirror and noticed a strange bump on my right cheek.
I leaned toward the mirror to check it out closer and figured it was a
zit so I surrounded it with my three index fingers and squeezed that
fucker until it popped. And what a joyous pop it was! The white shit
SHOT out of the lump and splattered against the mirror, leaving me with
a feeling of exuberance.
I wiped my hands on my Underoos and left the bathroom but felt that I
had forgot to do something so I went back into the bathroom.
The white goo was slowly oozing down the mirror and something in my
brain told me I needed to taste it.
So I did.
And it was ranch dressing.
I looked at my cheek again and noticed the bump was still there so I
used my four index fingers this time and squeezed and squeezed and
squeezed as more ranch dressing shot out until I saw a brown fleck
trying to break it's way out of the bump.
More squeezing and more brown started appearing, but I figured I should
stop with the squeezing so my lovely face wouldn't be scarred so I
opened the medicine cabinet and found my trusty fish hook.
After sterilizing it with my Bic, I leaned towards the mirror yet again
and slid the hook in between the skin and brown thing and kept pushing
it in until a 1/2 centimeter remained and then I slowly turned it until
the hook was underneath the brown thing and then I yanked the fucker
out.
I placed the hook with its treasure in the sink and then wiped away the
white goo and blood that was leaking out of the hole in my cheek. When I
was satisfied that I would not bleed to death, I plugged the hole with a
piece of toilet paper (yes, also sterilized with the Bic) and turned my
attention to the sink.
There lay the hook with something brown attached to it. I picked it up,
fearful it was one of those pod things but upon closer examination I
discovered it was just that missing popcorn chicken bit from the night
before and, boy, was I filled with relief!
And it was still warm and kind of crispy!
So I ate it.
As I licked my fingers while leaving the bathroom, I slipped in a pool
of blood (where did that come from?) and fell, smashing my head into the
sink.
A persistent buzz woke me up hours later. I answered my vibrating
cellphone and it was the woman, screaming at me because she had run out
of gas. Again.
COMING NEXT: Stephen can't read? Oh really?
