Mister Grey and I went with Rick and Punky to a little girl’s birthday party. As we sat on the back deck with the other odd ends as Punky stayed inside in her unmasked glory at 78, playing with the three babies amid the only respiratory plague in human history, as bodies remain stacked and uncollected and festering in the great cities of the only nation ever to face a plague ass on.
Carissa was a friend of a cousin, just like Mister Grey and I. She was looking for a man. I announced myself as an interesting and interested candidate for her intentions but was fair enough to lead off with the disclaimer that I am broke, homeless and have two girlfriends in two states—having lost the third the day before over a technicality in remote companionality.
We had an interesting conversation as Mister Grey seethed with disgust over this overweight young woman waxing philosophic as a traitor to her kind when she announced BLM loyalty.
Then came Rick, telling her in his strident voice that she didn’t know shit and that “fifteen years from now” she’d look back on a life gone wrong and regard the martyrs of her youth with bitterness, for Carissa is 30, a plump, pretty girl with breeder’s hips, who The Khan would violate in the morning before he went out to battle, saving more delicate flowers for the drinking hours.
I was laughing as she tried to debate Rick and she looked at me and said, “I don’t have a chance here in this argument, do I?”
I returned, “He does not understand the concept.”
He then looked at her and said, “Look, its simple. I’m right and you’re wrong.”
She smiled with desire at the muscular man, fitter than 199 out of 200 men of her soft generation, as he pointed his finger at her. Her friend, Rick’s cousin, was getting sick of the banter and dragged Carissa inside and Rick turned to Mister Grey and he said, “Look, she’ll understand when she gets fired for being fat and gets replaced by a hot blond.”
The next day Punky got a call from Rick’s cousin, the tattooed blond that brought Carissa, who is only 30 pounds overweight, and she said to Rick in front of us on the back porch, “Ricky that girl that was with your cousin wants to date you.”
Rick said, “Not interested.”
Punky said, “Why? She’s only half your age and is beautiful!”
Rick said, “She’s fat. She doesn’t deserve this body. Have her call Jim. Jim will fuck her.”
“Ricky!” his mother protested as Mister Grey and I roared with laughter.
