Cougar wasn’t looking for anything, just stumbling around drunk, but he found it. He found it in Perry’s asshole.
“What now?” Cougar asked. Something was on television, a kind of giddy purple blur.
“Not ‘what now.’ Who now. Me now. You now. Us now. Just us, baby. Against the goddamn world,” Perry said.
Linda baked a pizza. They all ate it.
The trouble with sobriety is the lights get in your eyes and people prod and stare down your throat and you’re expected to put in a congenial appearance at Harry’s Donuts and meanwhile the monkey and the noise and the sex criteria and the Which Whiskey Would You Be If You Were Actually Alive Right Now? quiz and the snail mail surprises from Phoenix and the idiots in line for the next best thing.
Daddy killed the billy goat barbecued the billy goat put the billy goat in a bowl and told me it was a new kind of breakfast cereal. Mommy changed the channel from John Belushi to Victoria Principal and suddenly I was twice divorced with less than spectacular tits, a gas guzzling car and a map of the United States of America stained with Whataburger ketchup and Ken doll cum (bright green Silly String). “Paper or plastic?” was the most popular question and everyone knew the answer and everyone won a prize.
The piano needed tuning. Secret code for knock three times on the ceiling if you want to touch me. The tortillas were burning and the beer exploded in the freezer. Translation: Veronica was hot and loose on the goddamn victory bus to Vegas prowl again, sleazy as shit in her polyester puke cooter shorts and Icky Secrets bra, all pink lace OOMPH all rhinestone yeehaw NO SLEEP UNTIL AMARILLO. Bitches. The postcard from Hoover Dam was stuck to the refrigerator with two different magnets. Elvis. Coyote.
“The horse ain’t gonna bite ya, baby.”
“His teeth are looking at me!”
“He can’t help that. Give him a cupcake.”
“He’ll eat my fingers! I know he will!”
“If you don’t feed Mister Charlie that cupcake I’ll blister your butt! You hear me? Huh? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“You ain’t allowed to be scared, not on my ranch.”
“I hate this ranch.”
“I’m gonna blister your butt.”
He would like to order the green chile enchiladas. He would like to order a Tecate. She would like to order the chicken flautas. She would like to order a Corona. They need more chips and salsa. Why does the jukebox only play retarded music? May we please speak to the owner? We were thinking more along the lines of Dragon Castle. Oh, they’re from Austin. No one has heard of them. They’re too good. At least blow out those bullshit candles. We don’t subscribe to Jesus.
I would love to be the proud owner of a more exclusive theme. I would love more daring colors and ass spanking fonts. I want people to stumble across this blog and mutter,”Shit. This is one singular bitch. I don’t know what she’s selling but I’m buying. Honey? Where’s my phone?”
Well. You’re here. Pretend to take your clothes off. Pretend to sit on the sofa with casual disinterest. Nonchalance is my only fetish. Be cool be chill be whatever the hell you are when the computer is unplugged and the lights are twinkling and the ice is melting ruining perfectly good whiskey and Patrick Swayze sings his longing from the stereo and it’s almost like he’s right here with us teaching us how to love one woman and be mediocre about it. I’m going to kiss you now and when your eyes are closed I will rob you blind but you won’t mind because after all I’m worth so much more than all those smelly wads of cash you were going to throw away, anyway, at Virtual Hookers A Go Go. Oh sweat oh tension oh lovely prolonged tease. This is the banquet of fuck and no one is begging. It’s magic it’s destiny it was decided for us. Walt Disney made all those corny cartoons with us in mind. Oh save oh find oh keep and carry. We’ll get married in the snow. Melting. Ruining perfectly good chemistry.