Saturday, May 28, 2011

Gary's Confession

Look, it's complicated, but let me just preface this by listing three things which I am resolved never again to touch: a) female badgers (holy SHIT it's not worth it), b) tequila, and c) my wallet when I'm within a three mile radius of any tattoo joint.

It sort of started when Gary got all butt-hurt about my "30% reproductive success rate" comment, and at the bottom of the fourth shot confessed the reason behind pandas getting the rep for being about as virile as a napkin full of disgorged Toaster Strudel.

"So, y'know how you, *ahem*, get used to... um, a certain thing, and then you find that later, well... this one very specific thing is all that works for you -- let's say, um, thinking about a really hot sea lion holding a lacey wadded-up apron over your face and telling you she's gonna smother you because you've been bad--"

"--Jesus wept, Gary... You are one sick bastard."

He shot me a nervous sidelong glance. "Nah, man, I mean... not that exactly... I'm just--"

"Uhhhh, right. How do you come up with something that fucked up out of the blue?"

He ignored this and went on. "So imagine that instead of it just being you that sort of fixated on something specific, it was your whole species. Then it got reinforced over dozens of generations. Until, well..." He sighed and picked a cashew out of a little plastic bowl of party mix -- I think maybe showing off his thumb-dexterity, as if to make the point that despite being sadly crippled perverts, pandas at least have excellent fine-motor skills. I'll give 'em that. They utterly fucking dominate at Xbox.

Several drinks later, I was really feeling sorry for him, and that was my first mistake. We were stumbling outside for a smoke and I'm all, "Know what, Gar? If your problem is that you have these, like, very precise needs, look no further than the badgers. Those bitches are crazy. They will do anything. Whatever your thing is -- and for the love of God don't tell me -- I know they're game."

Next I remember, I wake up in this squalorous shithole above Ricky's Tattoo Emporium, covered in scratches and bruises, my mouth tastes like the floor of a bus terminal, my wallet's empty, and there is a distinct shaved spot on my belly with a tattoo reading "Felicia Furever." (I'm not sure if this is some idiotic pun or just a misspelling, and I sure as shit have no clue who Felicia is, but I heard water running in the bathroom and got the hell out of there.)

As I was creeping down the stairs and saw all the broken bottles, it started to come back to me. To make a long story short, let's just say it was two grand bail to spring Gary, but he learned an important lesson -- do not resist arrest. And if a female police officer is in the process of reading your rights, do not suggest that she do something else with her mouth, unless you want to get your ass kicked.

No comments:

Post a Comment