By Kevin du Plessis

“Hmnf,” said the elegant asshole. He scratched his balls, cleared his throat and continued, “I just really don’t see how she can just go around being such a fucking dried up prune with that look in her eye every time you say fuck that just shows you how much she thinks we’re actually doing something wrong. Like her knitting is so much holier than our baked beans and prime vinegar blend red.”

Elegantly, the asshole sat back. “Hmnf,” he said again.

“Man, seriously, these people believe in Jesus but they don’t believe in dinosaurs. I mean where on earth did they grow up? In a corn field somewhere off the map right next to the ZCC holy mountain, or whatever, where they have 2 litre coke bottles filled with who knows what kind of water – tap? River? Puddle? Who could say? – and then they sell it off next to the road as some kind of holy water that will heal your warts or piles, or whatever it is that holy water in a plastic container would heal.” The asshole’s friend, who was a real dick, said all of this with his eyes screwed up to slits as if he were a very self-amused old man whose jam jar thick glasses had fallen off his face in the middle of his favourite racist joke. “Ah, but shame, she’s not that bad.”

They laughed. And then they lamented. For, really, the dick had a point. She wasn’t a bitch, not always, anyway. And she wasn’t stupid, not always. She wasn’t bad looking, nor too irritating, or whatever it is that makes you like somebody to a degree that isn’t of the erupting volcano kind of fierce liking, but more of a gentle teapot pouring into a cup with a plain kind of tea.

Anyway, the point was, she wasn’t bad, and that’s what made it all the sadder, to them at least. When they had met her she was different. Different in a way that differentiates a non-interested pretty girl from a highly interested mildly horny girl with crazy teeth. Not to say that she was a very horny girl, or perhaps she was and that’s why she was always such a bitch when she saw others having fun, who knew?

They lamented that she’d once been interested, had enough of all of the drinking, smoking, getting high and whoring and then decided that it just wouldn’t work for her and that instead she was going to become a high nosed snot dripper at everything her vice principal in high school similarly disagreed with.

“I suppose she thinks she’s growing up and that she’s past all this?”  Asshole asked.

“What? Tired of all this? How could she be, c’mon!” the reply came dickishly as a lighter clicked, water bubbled and an intense coughing fit spread its horrid leprous goose sounds around the dimly lit room.

They made a rehearsed laughing sound they’d heard on a brainless cartoon one night which they’d been pestering everyone they knew with ever since. It faded, and they sat in silence for a while as a scratched Janis Joplin CD shook its way to the end of another Woodstock favourite.

Dick: “Strange.”

Asshole: “What?”

He squirted a giggle from somewhere high pitched. “You used to be like that, man!”

“Fuck you! I haven’t knitted a thing in my life!”

“Yeah, but you were a douche bag.”


The dick sat back in his chair, letting its slightly dirty but immensely fluffy cushioning suck his body in whole until just the moment before he slipped into couch oblivion. Couch oblivion, he thought. What a ridiculous idea.

“Wish we could have saved her, though,” he finally said.

“She who doth not believeth, doth not retrieveth,” he hesitated at a loss for an ending to what was supposed to be funny. “Doth not retrieveth –”

“Doth not retrieveth that small glimmer of a hope that one day you could actually avoid joining the masses of unhappy sandwich munching, spreadsheet compiling, lunch break taking, queue standing cone heads sitting trapped by a bureaucratic wall of desks cemented by paperwork absent mindedly stamped with a dull purple ink that makes you even more depressed and violated to the core at being so fooled into thinking that a cheque at the end of the month makes all that shit worthwhile.”

“It’s okay, we’ll never be like that,” came the response after a few moments, and kindly too.

“But every soul lost is a travesty in the sight of Mortality.”


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