Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

I’m trying to masturbate to the redhead with the big titties from the Standard but the problem is, Julianne Moore has a movie coming out. So they interviewed her on NPR and I heard it and got her face stuck in my head. I get about three seconds of the redhead from the party before it becomes Julianne Moore’s pointy fucking Count Chocula face. Now you are cursed too. Go try to jerk off to a redhead and try not to think of Julianne Moore.

The redhead with the big titties wasn’t opening the door in room 413 and the party was winding down, so I admitted defeat and walked over to skid row to buy black tar heroin. The first guy I talked to just took my money and disappeared. He had handed me a garbage bag full of L.A. Kings T shirts as collateral, which I now own. Email me if you are extra large.

Eventually I found an old hooker who scored for me in exchange for two half pints of Kamchatka vodka from the convenience store. Got one for myself too. It’s actually not bad. I offered to get her high but she said no, I’m just a alcoholic.

You stupid, she said, comin around here with all that money. You a stupid motherfucker. Yeah, I’ve been briefed. I was wearing my tiny American Apparel swim trunks and one of those country western shirts with snaps. Black loafers. I was carrying a briefcase with my laptop in it. All around me were huge menacing black people. A man jumped off a kid’s Huffy bicycle to punch another man in the face. The origin of the dispute was unclear. No one paid attention. Cops would circle occasionally and they should have arrested me; there is no reason for me to be on that block except to buy black tar heroin.

This is your fault, Megan, with the red hair and big titties. Your cute dress over a bikini. If you had fucked me I could have let all my pent up energy out. I was drinking all day by a pool watching beautiful young pieces of ass saunter around in wispy wet bathing suits, grinding on girls on the dance floor with my half hard penis crammed in their ass cracks. I was wound up and it had to go somewhere; it was either gonna be pussy or hard drugs. If you had had unprotected sex with me on our first meeting like you should have, I’d have retired home quietly to a glass of chardonnay and a good book.

I can pinpoint the moment where I lost you. You were complaining to a bunch of dudes about how a guy who looked like Lenny Kravitz said he wanted to impregnate you. You started cuddling up to me and said you would rather have my baby. I went to get another drink, and saw Lenny. He actually looked more like a retarded black Robert Pattinson so I went back to tell you this. I should have stayed away. I had been playing it perfectly. Bumping into you around the party and saying a couple witty things and then taking off, leaving you wanting more. I lost it when I went back to make a lame joke about an old topic. You can never fuck up with women, not once. Meanwhile a gay guy invited me back to his room; I’m about 80 per cent certain I’ve seen him in black and white on a billboard with his shirt off. Maybe even Abercrombie and Fitch. So, I’m attractive apparently. Doesn’t matter. One lame joke and you’re done.

I have your number. Maybe I’ll call you. Take you out for a drink. I want to see your pink mouth around my cock and your bright red hair cascading over my hipbones.

The walk home was too long so I stopped to smoke my first balloon with a homeless guy, using foil from a discarded Philly cheese steak. Who else does this, I thought. Finds a down on his luck junkie and gives him free heroin. Dude better name his first child after me. I don’t remember feeling too high but it was three miles to get back in dress shoes and I couldn’t feel my feet hit the sidewalk. When I got home I called for the cat, I reached out to pick him up and I fell over into my neighbor’s rosemary patch. I fell pretty hard and it didn’t hurt. Now I smell like rosemary.

I got inside and smoked the second balloon and nodded off listening to Patrice O’Neal.

You’re sitting there in a tiny cubicle in a moldy beige room with acoustical tile and you are separated from a bear sized homeless man with a loud booming voice by what is basically urinal divider. You have a headset on, an old one with one foam earphone and a curly wire going into a battered phone. You are listening to a cavernous hiss. And then it beeps and your back tenses and it’s showtime.

“….Hello? HELLO!!???!!!”

The person on the other end of the line has been listening to silence and clicks for five seconds. They are tipped off to what you are. Because the autodialer waits for what it thinks is a human voice to connect you. The person is already pissed off. You have a dumb terminal in front of you. It’s the 21st century but you have a monitor with green block letters on black from the 70’s with what is putatively the person’s name and address, but a lot of times it’s empty or some guy who was about to get fired had put in “Harry Stiffey, 69 Cumshot Drive.”

“HELLO??!???” WHO IS THIS??!!??”

“Good evening sir, is this Mr. Sti– uh, are you the head of the household?”

“WHAT ARE YOU SELLING?”

“I’m not, I’m not selling anything sir, this is Cornelius calling on behalf of the Firefighter Charitable Organization, we’re asking for your support in helping the Fi-”

“PUT ME ON YOUR ‘DO NOT CALL’ LIST AND NEVER EVER CONTACT ME AGAIN” (slam.)

And then the hiss again. Select “DNC” on your dumb terminal. “Do Not Call.” As mandated by law we will mail a mimeograph of our “Do Not Call” Policy to what we think is his address and take him out of the system. Wait for the next beep. If you get five human beings in a row you’re doing all right. The dialer waits until it thinks it hears a person but a lot of the time it’ll give you that three tone disconnect sound ten times in a row. DOO DOO DEEEEHHHH and you have your headset turned all the way up because the fucking old ladies all gargle softly around fifty years worth of Pall Malls and they’re impossible to hear except at top volume. This means the “we’re sorry, the number you’re calling has been disconnected” sound is like sticking your head in one of those horns that a lighthouse blows in the fog. Mark that one as a “Telco.”

Or you get fifteen minutes of no English. We would call through San Francisco and some number exchanges are nothing but Chinese fresh off the boat, or Chinese who’d been here for years but never got off the boat in their minds, or Chinese who probably spoke English like they were hosting Masterpiece Theatre but had a handy excuse not to talk to us. “WEI? BING WA?” “Do you speak English, ma’am? Are you the head of household? “BING WA YA?”

But these things were still better than getting an actual English speaking human being who was head of household. Because they all hate you. Every single person you talk to hates you and thinks you’re a piece of shit and wishes you were dead and even when they’re polite you can feel it. “HELLO???!!!?? HELLO??!!?? “Good evening, this is Cornelius calling on behalf of the Firefighter Charitable Organization, may I speak with the head of household?”

“Do you know you called me DURING DINNER?”

Then don’t answer the phone, you fucking chump. Let the machine get it and savor your fish sticks in peace. “I’m awfully sorry to disturb you sir, but I’ll only need a minute of your time. Would it be better to call back another night?”

“Well, I don’t know. Let me ask you something– WHAT PER CENT OF MY DONATION GOES TO THE ACTUAL CHARITY??”

Stossel had fucked us, right before I got hired. Blown the lid off the whole operation. We called for police and firefighter charities, which sell boiler rooms the right to raise funds in their name. Basically the cops in your town get ten or fifteen grand to help schools or disabled kids or whatever and the company that I worked for gets eighty grand for the people who own it to buy small airplanes and strippers for wives. The cops know it works like this. But it’s still more money than they’d get sitting in front of Safeway selling cupcakes. And it’s good PR for everyone in town to get a call telling them your friendly police force is dedicated to keeping troubled teens active playing tennis in the Police Athletic League or whateverthefuck. The company puts on a variety show, or a rodeo, or a charity basketball game or something and what you’re selling is a pack of five tickets to this event for 35 bucks. You can go yourself, but, as the script says, most people opt to donate the tickets so local disadvantaged youth can attend . Lots of the word “youth” getting thrown around, so much that it becomes hard to say. Most people donate the tickets and keep the sticker they think will keep them from getting pulled over.