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March 13, 2012

What could only be described as fuckhead rehearsal for the mentally challenged puppet show we call life.

     It was the second time in as many weeks that I had dragged my battered sleep deprived body into what could only be described as fuckhead rehearsal for the mentally challenged puppet show we call life.  I sat in silence with my music at unhealthy decibels.  It was early, certainly too early to be awake and under the glare of the stomach churning violence of fluorescent classroom lighting.  On the desk before me I had gathered the dietary necessities of a squirrel.  I had prepared to medicate myself with cheap convenience store coffee and an array of nuts.  Have you ever seen the behavior of a squirrel in the fall?  I assumed I could achieve the same results if I ingested in the correct proportions.  Like the small fuzzy mammals I was foraging.  For all I knew this was the last warm day I would have to gather images of cleavage and ass that I would need to last the winter.

         Three rows down and five seats over sat something that caught my eye.  She was tan and small, south East Asian from what I could tell.  She would be good for an hours worth of entertainment but I was working with three.  Another quick glance at my book and I scanned the room again.  Two rows down to the right a pink tank top flashed.  It wasn’t until she spoke that I recognized her bitchy opinionated voice that had become so familiar in my weekly class.  I grinned delighted by what her raspy vocals hid.  To the shriveled dicks around her she was scary, but to me she was scared.  Broken in some way, she had seen her fair share.  I had managed to account for two hours of my time before I was distracted by the rancid smell that accompanies a depressed childless middle aged woman.  The door creaked open and stepping in from the morning suns silhouette was what could only be described as the bastard love child of Smurfette and Gargamel.  The warden of my Saturday morning arrived in a blue leisure suit that was strung together with golden chains that could give even MR. T a hard on.  Her Stepford smile sickened me.  I despised her.  Any human being that was happy to be in a classroom on a Saturday was evil.  The cleavage could wait; heifer hating took precedence. 

            As she chewed her double mint cud I wondered if she slept standing up on all fours.  Sex with a woman of her diameter could only be referred to as cow tipping.  Her ass was the reason there was a whole in the ozone.  I’d say she escaped the slaughter house, but I don’t think Mcdonalds would even fry her ass for the dollar menu.  Her shit was as dusty as the top shelf of…,

 “Excuse me sir are you paying attention.”

I couldn’t tell if that was her voice or just the sound of her thighs rubbing together.

“We are going to do group work you need to find a partner.” 

     Dam, my blind rage of all things potbellied made me miss a chance to partner with a potential fallacious counterpart.  South East Asian, taken.  Pink Top, taken.  My eyes darted about the room searching desperately for anything without a dick. 

“Sir if you can’t find anyone you’ll have to work with me,” she explained. 

     As my manhood recoiled in horror I thought about making myself throw up, which wasn’t much of a stretch.  A large fellow in front of me, with a hockey player’s face and a smile to match, told me in a Russian accent I could be his partner.  Thank Christ I thought, “Back in the U.S.S.R.”  My beloved new comrade had no idea what he had done.  He saved my ass ten times over.  There was no conceivable way I could deal with a close encounter of the fat cunt kind.  After some gay ass roll playing, that was supposed to simulate a job interview, she decided it was time for some Q and A.  That sounded shitty so I decided that it was time for Q from A (Questions from Asshole.) 

Heifer Smurf – So does any one have any questions about how to respond to certain interview questions?

Me – Yea I got one, what if someone asks you what your favorite type of Whiskey is?

Heifer Smurf – Ahhh yes well I would just say something like “Wow that’s a very interesting question, I wonder why you would ask me something like that.”  Remember they are only allowed to ask questions that are relative to the job.

Me –       Well to me, that seems relative.  Let’s be honest, you gotta know what your doing out there, you gotta be sharp, you gotta wine dine and 69 these mother fuckers if their going to buy your insurance.  Hell you wipe their ass and powder it if that’s what their into.  What if you’re a broker and you have to take someone out but your so much of a prude jit-stain you can’t even order a man a god dam proper whiskey.  I don’t think my manager at J.O. Inc. would be too happy if I lost the Jenkins account.  So than he’s going to give me lip and I’m going to give his Mercedes a 9 iron and tell him if he opens his mouth again I’ll fill his wife’s ass with my fist.  Upon hearing this I’ll be fired and have to resort to selling myself to overweight college whores, who would look like your daughter if any man was brainless or desperate enough to search for your cunt between those rolls of fat you call a body, and father you a beast of a child.  This in turn would eliminate the need for my ever having gone to college in the first place and sitting through this bullshit glorified human resources clusterfuck.  Now, that could all be avoided if I was simply asked what my favorite whiskey was in the interview.  You see what I mean, relative.

     Leaning back in my chair, I contemplated lighting a smoke to compliment my climax of verbal ejaculation, but the clock said it was time to go.  My potbellied purgatory had come to an end.  Leaving the building and walking into the warm breeze I realized I had learned something that day.  The face of an offended fat woman is almost as pleasant to watch as that of a perfect ten cuming on your dick.  I suppose it’s true what they say, you’re never too old to learn.