Blow Out

Rarely would we leave our abode for a night on the town alone. We're the kind that may take in a matinee on a Saturday afternoon without companionship, but we'd never drag out our iron lung sans a friend and a crutch. Unfortunately, we've been feeling like a subterranean homesick alien for far too long and we're ready to prove it to ourselves that we can do it on our own.

We actually met her last Valentine's Day at a single-girls' dinner party. A house full of girls felt more like a house of cards. At first we thought she was a mute. We looked at her and sulked. She smiled back but it looked like she was attempting to swallow a pyramid-shaped light bulb. Two weeks later who would've guessed she would've been at Black Star Bar on the same Wednesday night as us. She wasn't the one we remembered. It was actually her friend who's claim to fame was once taking a trip to Alaska in the belly of the Exxon Morning Bell. She was the size of a small county in Nebraska and had clearly been corn fed for most of her life. We nudged her on the shoulder. Don't you know Stephanie Williamson? Stephanie was the hostess of the dinner party. NOOOOO, she roared with the force of a thousand suns and a pack of hunting bears. Oh, wait, yeah, I know Steph. I might be wrong, but you're, Billy right? Actually, it's Thom. You know what I mean, silly. Her jigsaw blood-stained teeth began to make our eyelids twitch with fear.

Our selfish goal was calculated with the intent of hoping to meet her paranoid android friend. It appeared that she'd finally waxed her upper lip and was beginning to relax after inhaling a line of Barbituates. So it turns out the Parliaments she's been smoking have also been contributing significantly to her recent weight loss, which is making her look extra special this particular evening. Or maybe it was the Corona Lights. Either way, we were hoping to clean the pipes. She grasps our treefingers without saying a word. There, there was her Volvo SUV just across the street in the parking lot. We take the 15 steps and foreplay ensues with the opening of the passenger-side door. A ripcord climax unfolded four seconds later with the unzipping of our pants.

Heaving bodies were packt like sardines in a crushd tin box. Feels like everything in its right place. She begins to bludgeon our beefstick and after seven-short minutes she's requesting a warning as her hand balances against the side airbag. Then our nice dream ensues. Just as she pauses to gasp for a breath and wipe the juice dribbling off the end of her chin, our throbbing vegetable dishonorably discharges right in her eye. We think to ourselves, will nail polish remover be of any use at expunging semen from a brow? Our thanks is the slamming of the revolving door. No surprises here. Her last memory of us was Radiohead humming in the background. As we leave her high and dry, we wonder if she liked the taste of our weird fishes.