Poop Shute

Coining a new phrase. Use it. Go ahead.


Me: (singing) OH, Baby, baby don't you lose my number! 'Cause you're not anywhere that I can't find you! (end singing) Know what that is?

Kim: No. What?

Me: A Phil Collins song from ass-forever ago.

Kim: Ass-forever?

Me: Yeah, I think I'm going to start attaching ass to as many words as I can manage.

Kim: Haha. Really? I thought you wanted to cut back on the whole profanity thing.

Me: Yeah, well... if fvck is a felony then ass is really more of a misdemeanor. I'm okay with that.



**************************



He sits at the bar dreaming. No, wait. He really is awake. Remembering then. It's funny how that can feel like dreaming. Especially with a liberal dousing of whiskey. It washes over him. Swallows him. The memory, not the whiskey. Er, well, maybe both together in some sort of beautiful and terrifying black-magic synthesis. Yeah. he liked the sound of that. He really needed to start writing this sh;t down.

He had just stubbed out his last cigarette when a woman must have walked by.
"Must have" because he was too drunk and unaware to actually see her, but he smelled her perfume. This mystery woman's perfume, that is. He caught the scent as she passed, or so he assumes. He gets these moments a lot. It could be anything these days. Usually smells. Cake frosting. Citrus. Wet pavement after a summer rain. For him, these are the moments with the beautiful and terrifying voodoo... er, what was it he said? Damn. He really did need to write this sh;t down. More and more lately these remembering moments sweep him up. These are the moments when you might as well have been dreaming, but you eventually come to find your eyes were open the whole time. Staring blindly right through the big lump sitting next to you at the bar.

"What the fvck are you looking at?"

"...huh?"

"I said-"

"Oh, uh... yeah. I heard you. Sorry."

Damn.