Camel toed transvestite walks into my living room takes a seat, has some sangria, makes a sandwich and takes a 5-minute nap, then realizes that I've been watching her from the sofa. I suppose she also realizes this must be my house. She squints for a nanosecond, relaxes her body, and proceeds to scream. Shiva, holy Shiva, great goddess, her scream cuts through my window and it remains in tact, looking as if it has suffered a terrible cracking, a most undesirable affliction. Of course I assume she hopes to be served some coffee, so I limp into the kitchen (as if somehow my knee or leg has been injured unbeknownst to me), and I return with a steaming cup of germ death.
The scream stops and her eyes excite out of their relaxed pose and rest on my middle finger. Does she want the middle finger? Do I give her the finger? This very intricate ethical question of finger politics, fingering, or what have you, causes me to shake with flashback feelings from college, where I studied Ethics, and sustained many paper cuts while working in the field. Being classically conditioned for fear in the presence of Ethics, I was forced to throw the cup of coffee at the camel-toed transvestite, causing her to sneeze and alliterate, just like my grandma used to when she burned her tongue.
Apologizing vigorously seemed so unfitting of the mood in the room, so I turned on the television, while she nibbled on the coffee cup.
“So, how are you?”
Finally some words are spoken, and I am happy to hear her speak.
“What do you want?”
“Teaspoons, coffee,and a lover to lick them off of me.”
“Oh, is that it?
“That's the implication.”
The idea of retrieving another cup of coffee seems too ludicrous to bare, and especially so when combined with the teaspoon request. So I do what men do when a request is to be denied, and I go to my desk (the desk that is at my office a few miles away) and draft a letter. It reads as follows:
No.
Unfortunately, she is a most ungracious visitor, and departs before my return, leaving only a trail of breadcrumbs leading to the empty space of my cupboard reserved for bread.
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