I don't know how funny this will be being that everything I'm about to unveil is completely true, but it shouldn't be too bad considering this is the first piece I've actually felt like writing in a year, and I'm in the mood for some fucking jokes about this woeful tale. As well, this venture should be great for you, the viewer, as it is completely stripper related because we all know I can't go seven days without meeting one of the more dysfunctional jackals in stilettos no more than I can keep my dick out of them for the seven following.
I don't know what it is about me. Mannerisms, evil smile, smart-assed mouth or whatever, but I could draw the crazy bitch out of a lineup of 100 nuns, bed her down, and for some asinine reason be wanting to move her in before the next major holiday. Something about those faulty in the head heavily interests me, which could attribute to my mild fascination with serial killers and such. Fact is, I've dated a couple Mary Poppins-like girls with some class who had their overall program straight, and guess what? I was bored off my fucking ass. But Jesus Christ, there is a line a crazy bitch shouldn't cross, and this particular broad decided to hurdle over it in just a little less than five measly days.
I had a little bit of history with this psycho, though, who we will call Londa because that's her real fucking name and I don't want to lie about one single aspect of this tale. Even the pictures of her are real because that's the way it must be.
I'd worked with Londa ten years ago; me: an innocent deejay completely naïve to some ruthless cunt's sadistic nature of permeating her misery onto everyone she comes in contact with, and she: a twenty year old dancer who naturally had been raped, thusly explaining her alcohol-fueled rage, chronic drug usage and choleric temperament that had spawned some of the worst demonic utterances out of someone's cock hole I'd ever heard. Ya see, in 1999 she was one of those broads who was a real sweetheart when she was sober and happy, but after 8 beers and 4 shots ya kinda wanted to introduce her neck to dull cutlery; 70% wanting her to bleed, 30% wanting it to really hurt. I'd tolerated this back then because like I said, I was a dumbass, neophyte captivated by dating a stripper considering I'd thought it was hot, as oppose to nowadays where I could find more sex appeal in a school bus fire than in my coworkers.
Additionally, Londa was fine, so . . . it's no shocker that the better looking a broad is, the more of her bullshit we'll tolerate because we wanna fuck her again - - - it's really that simple.
But I didn't even need to do much with this one because back then she was somewhat infatuated with me. I'd messed around with her for a few months and she'd "fell in love," whatever the fuck that means to a stripper, but I'd decided to go a different route and date a different stripper for a year (which was what the waiting room for Hell must be like, incidentally.) A countless number of times Londa had stalked me at my home, called at inappropriate times and had worked with me and my girlfriend at the same strip club, seemingly always sticking her head in and causing me grief with myself and the misses. Londa was pretty much insatiable for months and wouldn't accept that I'd chosen to be with this other stripper, but it had finally sunk in and Londa had ceased obsessing over me. If memory serves, I'd gotten fired; Londa had quit stripping and we'd lost touch.
For nine-ish years, in fact. Haven't spoken a word to her in that time, either, and in recent years I have only thought about her a handful of times.
Couple months back I was fucking around with two ex-girlfriends, going back and forth between their pussies and their sporadic employment of my kitchen sink/stove. I'd figured, "Hell, they're ex girlfriends for a fucking reason, I'm just gonna fuck 'em and if one happens to get her head outta her ass, sure, I'll keep her." Well that didn't happen because dating strippers in 2010 still isn't warranting anything deserving of a trip to the jewelry store so it didn't take but a couple weeks for me to tell both of them to get raped by seven prison Niggers or simply go fuck themselves, whichever came first.
So there I was jerkin off to pirated porn for a couple weeks and I thought to myself, 'Fuck, I'm running out of ex-girlfriends to bring back and see if they can redeem themselves because learning a brand new stripper's package of brand new bullshit is about as appealing as a staph infection in my balls, which banging some new stripper could give me.' What followed was what seemed like a solid idea involving a rather gay application I'd gotten coerced into starting, which you fine people are likely familiar with called Facebook, or as I like to call it, Bitchfest.
See, I'm in firm belief that Facebook is for self-indulged, neurotic twats who apparently live to inform those close to them about how men consistently treat them like shit, yet in some way manage to spray a shard of sunlight onto their unfortunate situations by ending their admittance and say without saying, " . . . But one day I'll find a man to treat me right no matter how psychotic I am."
Whatever, retards. Anyway, I never use Facebook for that bullshit because I'm conscious/considerate enough to know those of you on my friends list aren't my pro-bono shrinks. I use it more so for shit like this:
'Yea, I'll look Londa up on Facebook and see what's going on with that poor girl. Logic tells me a crazy bitch HAS to get her head right in a decade. I mean, it can't get any worse than the craziness she's already put me through. Time heals all, right?'
Sure as shit, I found Londa, who'd now lived 50 minutes away and according to her profile, she was single so my dick and I began talking and we agreed contacting her made complete sense. I'd sketched up some mundane message to her, just to make sure she remembered big Z here and my cock of the Midas touch. I mean, for all I knew, the bitch had undergone severe electroshock or did enough crank to wipe clean her already-scant brain cells. She replied two days later with "Call me anytime" and her phone number. Bam! Got the digits in her first correspondence with me in a decade so I already knew I was fucking her before the week was up, and that's why I called Londa three minutes later.
In our early conversation, I'd found out she'd just gotten out of a seven-year relationship with a man who had been beating her ass fairly regularly and treating her like the general piece of shit I'd remembered her being. Played a real choice victim card on me, too, apparently assuming my gullible thought process was at the rudimentary state it was back when Clinton was running shit. Fact is, if a woman is with a man for that long and she's claiming she got her ass kicked by him, I already know she had it coming each and every time. That saying "there's two sides to every story" never applied to a topic more than a female's tale of how she was abused by her boyfriend. I'm smarter than any of you in this area, and I know damn-well the bitch instigated, influenced or straight deserved to get smacked for her irrational behavior, but that's neither here nor there.
Londa also admitted she didn't have a driver's license because of the 4 OWIs she'd accrued since we'd last swapped bodily fluids. I also ascertained she had to move back home with her mother after the breakup and surprisingly enough, had credit debt. Oh, but here's what I consider to be the icing: she was talking to me on a cell phone sponsored by the shit factory we all know as Cricket, whose service towers must be made out of hemp and duct tape.
Now, experience has told me any bitch out there who pays Cricket for service, it basically means she has taken several wrong paths in life and she in no way should be trusted with anything resembling responsibility because the closest thing she'll ever have to a degree is a PHD in cock. I can tell how big of a fuck-up a woman is by her cell phone provider, her shoes, teeth whitener, zip code, and where her baby daddy is, prison or otherwise, but Londa here in 9 years still hadn't any crib midgets blowing snot everywhere so I was all about giving her another shot at my everlasting hard-on . . . heart. I meant to say "heart."
I picked her up less than a week later and she was set to spend 3 days at my house. It didn't matter that I hadn't seen her in 9 years or had only been back talking with her for about 6 days because I was in her pussy within 4 hours, and it was as if I'd never left. Sex often clouds a man's judgment and this scenario was no different because I deemed it completely appropriate to dive in raw dog. Yea, that's right, fuck condoms. She'd said in a prior conversation something was removed from her fallopian tubes or some uninteresting shit I can't even remember, ramifying her unable to become pregnant, and to be honest, that's all I really need to hear to release my kids onto any broad's tattered cervix if she's on the positive side at not looking like a gargoyle on meth. We probably fucked and sucked each other for 7 hours total the first couple days, so much to the point that talking and watching movies was merely space filler for when we weren't exchanging cum faces. This girl just loved my cock; didn't hesitate to lick my balls or swallow my increasingly shallow loads. Hats off to Londa: even went porn style out of her own volition by pulling it outta her pussy and insisted I cum her in mouth, claiming she loved the taste of me and her pussy juice combined. It just doesn't get any hotter than that, people!
Needless to say I fell in love for some-odd minutes. I suppose that's where my first mistake came when I admitted to her on day three, "Ya know, thinking back on how things were, and if you actually are normal now, I'm likely gonna wanna be with you and want you to move up here in time. As in, live together."
Don't judge me. It was simply my penis sending signals to my frazzled brain matter therewith having come from pounding her pussy so hard, NASA would had to have labeled it "the oblivion" from thereon if they'd taken a picture of it from space. Londa's response to my somewhat proposition surprised me, and when I say surprised I mean shocked the hell out of me being that she was noticeably hesitant. She claimed her ultra-fabulous job of schlepping hamburgers needed to be delved into more to acquire funds to pay some debts--- shocker. It also appeared as if natural selection had shed its hereditary burden upon another trailer park family, as Londa was helping her mom out with bills at home, where Londa still resides at the age of 31. Waitressing at this pub-n-grill must be a constant pulse of formidable income, as I've never before heard anyone treat the brainless vocation of food server as some lucrative culinary marathon that all professional jobholders thirst for, but whatever.
It's not like I'd suggested the chick move in the following week, but apparently me saying that sparked something in her head because Londa exercised her Cricket phone and basically called in sick as to spend one more day at my house, which was fine with me because of the female servant, in-house pussy and at this point, her general companionship was beyond joyful.
Now, while we'd been hanging out the past 3 days, we'd actually made it out of the bed a couple times to go to my work where she only hung out, which is a different strip club than she'd known from time past. She'd had a few beers on each night and had never displayed any signs of craziness, so I was comfortable buying her a 12-pack for her to sponge up at my house. Still no issues; copasetic --- my dick had never been happier and the woman cleaned my house and cooked so I was thinking, 'Holy shit. This is the one! Plus unlike ten years ago, today she told me she'd eventually let me put it in her ass. Finally, the complete package.'
And all that brings us to . . .
DAY 4
It was already decided Londa was going to chill at my house while I went to work on this night, and this was also the first night I'd left her there alone. If memory serves, we exchanged some
I miss you texts because we hadn't been apart from each other in roughly 80 hours. I mean, it's not like work was especially exhilarating, and to be honest my dick needed a timeout, so why not throw her some buttered txt messages; if not my tongue making her feel warm, then at least my words. But it would seem boredom affects people in different ways, and I didn't think anything of it when I received the txt message from Londa:
Hey I found ur bottle of yukon jack. Mind if I have sum?
'That's odd," I thought. 'I haven't used that thing since Christmas. Pretty sure it was in the bottom cupboard.'
Sure. Go for it.
It was only 8:30 P.M. and I had only been at work for a couple hours, which meant it took Londa 100 minutes and some change to ransack my kitchen and find the gasoline of hard liquor. I didn't think anything of it, actually. Since the woman had said she was going to have dinner ready for me when I got home at 2:00 A.M. that was pretty much my only concern.
10:00 P.M. hit and my phone rang. It was Londa, naturally, so I stepped outside as to be away from the loud music so I could hear her.
"Hello?" I said.
"Hi, babe. How's work going?"
"Dead. I'm confident there's a backwoods tollbooth somewhere in Boise, Idaho seeing more action than this place tonight."
"Yeah? I'm sorry, babe. It'll be okay once you come home."
"It certainly has been since you've been there," I flattered her.
"Yeah? That's sorta why I was calling. I've been sitting here thinking . . . Yea, I'm not going home," Londa began. "You need me here, baby. And I wanna be here. I love you, Zack. I've always loved you so I'm just gonna get a job up here and we can go get my stuff in a few weeks or something. So . . . yea, that's about it. I know you want to be with me and I want to be with you. It's been too long so I'm just gonna fuckin' do it, man."
"Well that's interesting news. Are you sure you wanna be making this type of decision after you've been drinking like this? What about your mom and your job you were so worried about? Have you even thought about any of your responsibilities?"
"You don't sound happy about this," Londa said.
"Umm . . . it's not a matter of me being happy or elated or stunned. I just don't think you're in a position to make this kind of move so abruptly. Ya know, when I mentioned this to you, I was thinking a few months down the road. Hey, I'm just thinking rationally . . . But if you think this is what you want, I'm crazy enough to try it. But we'll finish this up when I get home. Gotta get back inside."
"Okay. I love you," Londa said.
. . . "Well that's sweet of you to say. I uh . . . I love you, too."
What the hell else was I supposed to say? I got back up in the booth and had a sensation in my chest that was similar to that of going down a rollercoaster but without the thrill. Then minutes went by and I soaked the idea in a little more, and admittedly I somehow bent and transformed the concept into plausible development. It's the optimist in me. And the moron.
Of course, then my phone rang at 10:45 P.M. It was Londa, naturally. I stepped outside as to hear her again.
"Yes, ma'am?" I answered.
"Yea . . . Look, this just isn't gonna work out with us. You're a fucking asshole piece of shit so I'm going home," she drunkenly started. "I don't need this shit so you can fuck yourself, bitch man! I'm leaving . . . piece a shit . . . never again will you do this to me . . . no man will ever tell me my worth! I left the---"
"What the fuck is wrong with your brain?" I interrupted. "What the hell are you talking about? You just told me a half hour ago you were moving in. I don't even know what the fuck to say this except you're drunk and stupid."
"Oh yea," she scornfully screamed, "I might not be the smartest girl in the world but I know you lost me forever this time. I poured my heart out to you and you shit all over me. Again. Fucking let you do it to me again, Zack, you fucking piece of shit. I hate you. I hate---"
"Look, you fucking moronic, drunk stripper, I---"
"I'm not a stripper, you stupid fuck. I'm a girl. I'm a girl with a heart and you shit all over it. Again. Why do you do this to me," she cried. The tears had to have been falling at this point. "All I wanted to do was love you. To take care of you. You fucking killed me all over again."
"I didn't do anything, you delusional, drunk cum ditch! I'm at fucking work right now and don't have time to nurse your drunk ass back to reality so go grab a bottled water or go cut your fucking wrist in the alley. I don't give a shit either way right now. You go calm the fuck down. I'm working right now," I continued then finally screamed, "CAN YOU FUCKING RESPECT THAT?"
"Okay. I'm sorry. Yes. Yes I respect that. Just no name-calling, ok?"
Three seconds of silence; I used it to conjure up the slipping of a few drops of sulfuric acid into her Visine bottle. It passed.
"Wow. Bye."
So there I was stuck at work with a psychotic broad likely pacing my house, setting fires and doing chants to whatever cacodemon had control of her sloshed thought process. I shut off my phone and continued out my shift like the banner employee I am. When it was finally time to go home, all I could think about in the car was if she destroyed anything in my house worth over a thousand dollars, I was going to have to let her bleed out in the basement and dispose of the body parts in Lake Michigan. There have certainly been bitches in the past who have flipped out on me, but never reasonless like this or never alone in my house for 3 hours wherewith the lack of my face, they could take their aggression out on inanimate objects that have cost me some significant coin. And nothing makes a drunk, crazy bitch happier than destroying something.
I walked in the house through kitchen door and noticed my place was sparkling clean, to my surprise. The only things out of place were some spices set upon the kitchen counter with a bottle of Pine-Sol. I heard the dish washer running and noticed the oven light was on. The house was completely quiet as I stepped into the front room where I saw Londa seated upon the sofa. It took little observational skills to see she'd been crying, but not even I'm soft enough to fall for some maudlin bitch with a stuffy nose and red eyes. I sat away from her in my computer chair and didn't even look over at her. Londa then scooted to the edge of the sofa near the chair.
"Can we just pretend this didn't happen? I know I shouldn't drink hard liquor and I know I was out of line," Londa said. "I'm sorry."
"Out of line? Is that all we're calling it? Jesus," I began calmly and solemnly, "This is the exact same way you used to act. Nothing changes but the fuckin' weather," I said as I shook my head. Still couldn't look her in eye; disgust. "I don't even know what to say to your behavior. What's fucked up is you're in your thirties and you haven't learned jack shit about how not to act in an entire decade. You've learned absolutely nothing. No personal evolvement or perception of those living foul around you, and there's a whole group of people out there who think the exact same way you do, and they're called Niggers."
"Oh, don't lecture me, Zack," she snapped. "Who the fuck do you think you are---"
I got up from the chair because her voice had firmed; Primordial instinct to be at a higher level as to take hold of dominance. "And still nothing changes. Ya know, I've been saying this to every fucking broad I've met in a goddamn strip club: I'm not your enemy, so stop being pissed at me for whatever the twenty other guys have done to you. Son of a bitch, I am way too fucking old for this shit."
As I was standing between the front room and the kitchen, there came a growling noise from the dishwasher. It was noticeably louder than I'd ever heard it before.
"I said I was sorry, fuck. I'm so sorry," Londa began caustically, "I'm not Miss Perfect, dad. Jesus. Shit happens and ya just get over it so can we just let it go? God."
"Considering it only took four days for you to get piss drunk and act like a bitch for no reason, letting it go seems like an unwise decision, actually. You're talking about moving in and if you're acting like this on day four, then we got a little bit of a problem for the future, now don't we?"
"Can we just let it go, please. Let's just go to bed. Tomorrow everything'll be okay."
"You have some misconception in your head that I want to be in the same bed as you right now," I said, then finally had to look at the dishwasher because of the incessant noise. As I looked at the floor beneath the dishwasher, there was a puddle of water forming and bubbles were steadily seeping out the sides. "Holy fuck!" I shouted. "What the fuck have you done to my house?"
I shut off the dishwasher and opened it up. What hit in me in the face was both the scent of warm forestry and complete stupidity. My jaw dropped as I looked at the bottle set upon the counter aside the spices for whatever the fuck was in the oven. Back in the front room, Londa remained seated, still drunk off her ass.
"Did you seriously use Pine-Sol in the fucking dishwasher?"
"What? I was cleaning and the dishes needed to be done. What's the problem?"
"What's the problem? " I shouted as I began to wipe up her disaster from my linoleum. "Are you fucking kidding me? Jesus Christ, what's in the oven: a rubber chicken?" I walked into the bedroom where I began picking up her strewn clothes from the floor, shouting into the front room, "C'mon, let's go. I'm taking you home right now 'cause you gotta get the fuck outta here. I can't even handle this anymore. You're fucked."
Londa refused to help me pack up her possessions, claiming she wasn't going anywhere. Her alcoholism combined with my sickened mind state resulted in a shouting match from two separate rooms until I could get all her things into a plastic garbage bag. From the bedroom of panties to the bathroom of a ridiculous amount of hair products and makeup, I stuffed everything in the bag as if I were filling a piñata of all the aborted fetuses I've paid for while under some sort of time constraint. Londa barged in just as I was wrapping up and began struggling with me in attempts to throw the bag on the ground.
"I'm not going anywhere! Keep fucking with me and I'll beat your fucking ass!" Londa yelled.
Mildly impressive: a 130 lb female having not a single worry of trumping a 260 lb male in a domestic skirmish. She was completely serious, too, proven by when she punched me in the chest and was ready to go to the death right there in my bedroom.
I actually backed up from her scornful face and tried to pacify the situation with, "I'm not even having a part of this. You are leaving. That's it. I want you outta here." I was still in such disbelief, I looked up at my ceiling as if the Lord were embedded into the paint and voiced, "Who the fuck puts Pine-Sol in a dishwasher! Fiction writers can't even make that shit up!"
This went back and forth for 20 minutes. Her stubbornness was drilling my ability to make rational decisions. I even opened up the kitchen door and tried to get her outside, which only resulted in more punches to my chest. Finally, I threatened to be a punk bitch and call the cops, which did nothing because she simply kept screaming then locked herself in my bedroom, at which point I panicked and actually went outside on my cell phone and called the Milwaukee County Police Department; first time in my life.
"Yes, I more so have a question than anything," I began to a female cop back at home base in my district, "This is gonna sound a little awkward, but I have a girl at my house who I picked up from Northern Illinois. I've known her for a while, so it's not like I'm some weirdo, but the bitch is drunk and won't leave my house and I've done everything I can think of to get her into the car so I can take her drunk ass back home, but she won't get into the car. She has no other way home and I've offered and pleaded with her that I simply take her back now because I can't have this woman in my house anymore. I can't have it. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir. Is there anyone you can call?"
"Um . . . well I suppose I could call social services since she has the mentality of an eight-year old, but no. I picked her up and she has no other way home and she won't listen. Now, it's important you realize I am not, I repeat, I am not looking for a police dispatch. I'm more so calling you for advice. Now, with all of that, my question is what are my options?"
"Well, since she has no other way home and you don't want an officer on site, all you can do is let her sleep it off," the policewoman told me.
Typical. The only time a cop is ever in my presence is to ticket me for some bullshit infraction that results in some hundred-dollar fine, which is okay because if one of those pricks ever entered my house and counted all the pirated movies, video games and music within my domicile, I'd get twenty years in the electric chair just for the first 3 CD cases.
As I walked back to my door, Londa was seated on the cement stairs. "I'm ready to go. Just help me get that bag to the car and don't say a fucking word to me."
I didn't. And I went to fetch that bag, locked up the house since she was finally out and put it in the backseat. The awkward part was that Londa sat in the backseat aside her bag as if I were a cab driver.
The drive began as if I were a muted bus driver for a single passenger of overseas people, meaning anything that vocally came from the backseat, I simply pretended it was a form of foreign language I hated hearing anyway---like Spanish, for instance. From the rural streets and finally onto the freeway, the bitch was in my car's backseat, still running off at the mouth. I remained quiet; she kept mumbling to herself: "Just take me home. Fucking bastard. I never did shit to you . . . Never again . . . Never doing this again . . . Just take me home," she whimpered repeatedly.
"Jesus fucking Christ, I am taking you home. Now will you shut the fuck up already," I finally grumbled. Mistake.
Londa started yelling, "SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU ASSHOLE!" The yelling continued while I was doing 78 in a 55. One really hasn't the basic comprehension of how difficult it was to drive at such speeds in the rain while refraining from stabbing a passenger in the eye with any given instrument lying on my front seat. I wanted to kill her, but instead I slowed down the vehicle because the fork in the freeway was approaching.
Now, no one could have predicted this, but once the vehicle dropped down to 35 mph, Londa opened up the car door and claimed she was jumping out. Naturally I had to stop the car on the freeway, in the midst of which I yelled, "What the fuck are you doing!"
It's difficult to convey the difficulty of the predicament this was before me. I mean, it was already pouring rain, and this location of Milwaukee at the time was under severe roadway construction, including the freeway I was driving her home on. The best way to explain what it looked like is to say that when Londa left her bag in the backseat and actually did exit the vehicle, she simply started hurdling over the construction blocks in the other lane as if she were a gazelle. All I could do was watch . . . then 5 seconds later, after my initial shock subdued, all I could do was be thankful.
I mean, come the fuck on, already. Who opens the door of a moving vehicle on the freeway while dark and raining? Ya know . . . fuck the climate; who opens the door of a moving vehicle and tries to jump out anywhere on the planet? FUCK! This bitch did.