Tuesday, March 15, 2005

Gutbucket Nasty

A World Of Satisfaction!

"Oh, hell, those people!" Mike snapped when somebody mentioned a couple of the supervisors there at work. "Far as I'm concerned, somebody just needs to rip their fuckin' heads off and shit down their goddamn necks. Maybe then they'd wake up!"

"Jesus, that's gross," Don said, though he was clearly amused by the idea and by the ferocity with which Mike expressed it.

"I don't care," Mike drawled, "and I don't give a rat's ass! He was grinning and snarling at the same time, apparently enjoying his diatribe. "It'd improve their goddamn dispositions, if you ask me. I know it'd give me a world of satisfaction to see it!" Over in the corner Jason, had been listening quietly as usual and now he cracked up.

"Jesus, I can't believe the stuff you're liable to say, Mike!"

Major Domo

Mike Patterson was the major domo, the prima donna, and the loudest voice, among the fellows in Fleet Maintenance. His style was intelligent, high-flown, imaginative and energetic, yet thoroughly gutbucket vulgar and nasty. He could talk informatively for hours about his home computer and all his new programs, then turn around and praise to the skies some poorly-drawn crude cartoon from the jackmags Mike collected, usually one having something to do with elephant-sized piles of excrement or women with immensely exaggerated genitalia, preferably being penetrated by male organs the size of a tree trunk.

Look At This Guy!

"Look at this guy!" Mike would chortle, shoving the magazine in somebody's face all the while so they could get a good look. "Just look at him, willya!"

He was leaning back comfortably in his chair and snickering, pointing to the cartoon character whose penis had grown as large as he was.

"Well, he might be able to fuck the whole world now," Red shrugged, "but the boy sure can't fuck any women."

"Why's that?" Mike grinned. "Oh, hell, sure, he can, there's plenty of these skags around here with cunts big enough for one a those," he smirked, exploding with laughter, yet seeming to speak with thorough conviction.

Who Do You Hate?

Red grinned back slightly, not wanting to show how dumbfounded or offended he was by the remark. He'd heard guys talking like this all his life, but he'd never understood it very well. Sometimes it seemed to go beyond the meanness of a joke. He thought Mike sounded like someone who hated the whole world except himself, and even that was in question. He wondered if Mike really had any notion how it sounded, all that moronic, humorless, hateful stuff he'd just spewed out or if he talked like that because he hated women?

Maybe his momma dropped him on his head when he was little, Red thought. And then stepped on him afterward.

Or could it have perhaps gone beyond that for men like Mike, that it somehow expressed how little respect Mike had for anyone, for life itself. It bothered Red, but he knew better than to say anything about it. He knew he didn't have to say anything about it, so he always tried not to, yet sometimes Mike would read his thoughts.


"You can try to act like you're above it," Mike grinned, "but face it; men have got to have their revenge against women, and this is about the only civilized way there is."

"What the hell do you mean by that?"

"Every man feels it, but not every man needs to go out and act it all out. These porno stories and cartoons act it out for most of us. I figure porn keeps the number of axe-wielding sex murderers down in the dozens instead of up in the thousands. Just my theory, of course."

"Yeah, I guess so," Red muttered. "Just a theory, I mean."

Calling The Kettle Black

"Except, of course, I seem to recall you saying a couple of times how hundreds, maybe thousands, of women owe you gratitude for not following your initial momentary impulse to just jump on 'em and fuck 'em!"

"Jeez, here's the pot calling the kettle black! I have said something like that," Red said with chagrin. "I don't know if we're talking about the same thing or not. I wouldn't want a woman to know I'd said even that."

"Well, I don't drag 'em over here and force their heads down in these fuck-nasty Hustler magazines, either," Mike snapped. "You think you're better than me when you're only a little more insistently polite about your language and your images than I am. You think I'm gross. A lot of this stuff is all the same stuff, I say."

"Maybe. But God, I hope not, though," Red sighed.

Mike is not intended as the hero of the story above, but neither is Red.
"The lion and the calf shall lie down together but the calf won't get much sleep." — Woody Allen

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