Tuesday, May 09, 2006
From the Desk of Dirk Mancuso
To: To the bitch that nearly ran me down on her rascal at Borders
From: The hobbled Dirk Mancuso
I'm not sure when having ankles the size of Butterball young boneless turkey breasts and a pendulous apron of abdominal fat hanging over your snatch became a recognized disability, but I'm sure you lumbered up the DMV the second it was and got you a handicapped parking space sticker. How handi (ha-ha) for you now to ride about on your motorized chair, eating caramel corn from the basket and slurping your jumbo size Orange Julius.
You probably don't remember me...I'm the guy who was browsing the 3 Books for the price of 2 table and made the mistake of walking around the table at the exact moment you came barreling through on your fully charged death machine and ran over the back of my heels. You probably also don't recall looking at me as though I had rammed 250 pounds of steel carrying a two ton load over your heels, wiping the foam from your top lip with the back of your hand and gurgling "Jesus Christ, watch where you're going!" in that thick Harry Carey/Jabba the Hut voice of yours.
No, you were probably too intent on the 5,000 calorie snack you were going to scarf down while reading the latest Rosemary Rogers romance. (And just so you know, Lady Jocelyn does give into the randy stablemaster's charms and forsakes her true love Lord Millingabout only to be reunited with him moments before giving birth to his firstborn son and then hemorrhaging out, leaving him to raise their offspring alone.) Enjoy the book!
In your face, bitch!
____________________
To: To the woman at the vet's office who was dressing like she was twenty when she was at least three times that
From: One visually distressed Dirk Mancuso
Don't. Ever. Do. That. Again.
I'm serious, ma'am. No one was fooled by that incredibly fake fall of blond curls cascading out of the back of that scarf you had tied as a headband. No, we all knew better. And the jewled high heeled sandals? Uh-uh. Sleeveless blouse exposing rolls of sagging skin and old lady chicken arms? Please...no one should have to see that. And the fabulous gauzy skirt? Now that was actually kind of working for you.
What wasn't working for you was the fact you weren't wearing underwear and when you stood up, the back of your skirt was sucked so far up in the crack of your ass I think I saw the outline of your sphincter.
I cannot imagine what your furniture at home smells like. And I don't want to.
____________________
To: To the incredibly cute vet with the french accent
From: The woefully smitten Dirk Mancuso
I know you must have thought I was quite the fucktard just standing there staring with my slack jaw and glazed eyes, but the sound of your voice was the auditory equivalent of warm massage oil being dripped onto my back and then slowly worked into my flesh, relieving my tired and aching muscles, leaving me relaxed and limp, as your hands explored my body, a slow heat building just under my skin and gradually growing into an inferno threatening to consume us both in a fiery embrace that was oh so wrong and yet oh so right, and culminating in a full night of mad, passionate lovemaking right there on that stainless steel examing table in front of both God and Mr. Whiskers.
Speaking of which, what's wrong with my cat again?
From: The hobbled Dirk Mancuso
I'm not sure when having ankles the size of Butterball young boneless turkey breasts and a pendulous apron of abdominal fat hanging over your snatch became a recognized disability, but I'm sure you lumbered up the DMV the second it was and got you a handicapped parking space sticker. How handi (ha-ha) for you now to ride about on your motorized chair, eating caramel corn from the basket and slurping your jumbo size Orange Julius.
You probably don't remember me...I'm the guy who was browsing the 3 Books for the price of 2 table and made the mistake of walking around the table at the exact moment you came barreling through on your fully charged death machine and ran over the back of my heels. You probably also don't recall looking at me as though I had rammed 250 pounds of steel carrying a two ton load over your heels, wiping the foam from your top lip with the back of your hand and gurgling "Jesus Christ, watch where you're going!" in that thick Harry Carey/Jabba the Hut voice of yours.
No, you were probably too intent on the 5,000 calorie snack you were going to scarf down while reading the latest Rosemary Rogers romance. (And just so you know, Lady Jocelyn does give into the randy stablemaster's charms and forsakes her true love Lord Millingabout only to be reunited with him moments before giving birth to his firstborn son and then hemorrhaging out, leaving him to raise their offspring alone.) Enjoy the book!
In your face, bitch!
____________________
To: To the woman at the vet's office who was dressing like she was twenty when she was at least three times that
From: One visually distressed Dirk Mancuso
Don't. Ever. Do. That. Again.
I'm serious, ma'am. No one was fooled by that incredibly fake fall of blond curls cascading out of the back of that scarf you had tied as a headband. No, we all knew better. And the jewled high heeled sandals? Uh-uh. Sleeveless blouse exposing rolls of sagging skin and old lady chicken arms? Please...no one should have to see that. And the fabulous gauzy skirt? Now that was actually kind of working for you.
What wasn't working for you was the fact you weren't wearing underwear and when you stood up, the back of your skirt was sucked so far up in the crack of your ass I think I saw the outline of your sphincter.
I cannot imagine what your furniture at home smells like. And I don't want to.
____________________
To: To the incredibly cute vet with the french accent
From: The woefully smitten Dirk Mancuso
I know you must have thought I was quite the fucktard just standing there staring with my slack jaw and glazed eyes, but the sound of your voice was the auditory equivalent of warm massage oil being dripped onto my back and then slowly worked into my flesh, relieving my tired and aching muscles, leaving me relaxed and limp, as your hands explored my body, a slow heat building just under my skin and gradually growing into an inferno threatening to consume us both in a fiery embrace that was oh so wrong and yet oh so right, and culminating in a full night of mad, passionate lovemaking right there on that stainless steel examing table in front of both God and Mr. Whiskers.
Speaking of which, what's wrong with my cat again?
_________________
Who's pissing me off now? Find out at my new place http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/
// posted by dirk.mancuso @ 5:29 AM 
Comments:
<< Home
Whoa...is it hot in here??(frantically waving scraps of paper in front of face)
SISTA-friend! What the hell was that?? "Ouch" to the first.
To the second--Don't TALK about my momma like that, biatch! I'll cut you up!
And WHOA--hot damn...to the third.
Love you sweets
SISTA-friend! What the hell was that?? "Ouch" to the first.
To the second--Don't TALK about my momma like that, biatch! I'll cut you up!
And WHOA--hot damn...to the third.
Love you sweets
Mmmmm! Orange Julius!
______________
Actually, those things are nasty. I think the last one I had was sometime in the ealy 80's. There was an Orange Julius store in the mall (since gone, but hey...I think so is the mall). Guh-ross.
On the other hand....did you say caramel corn?
______
no comment on #2....well actuall...one comment...."Ewww"
________
#3 - I somehow forsee your cat having a sudden relapse (if it hasn't already) and an emergency call to the vet...(just make sure you let the cat in on the plan, so it doesn't freak out).
______________
Actually, those things are nasty. I think the last one I had was sometime in the ealy 80's. There was an Orange Julius store in the mall (since gone, but hey...I think so is the mall). Guh-ross.
On the other hand....did you say caramel corn?
______
no comment on #2....well actuall...one comment...."Ewww"
________
#3 - I somehow forsee your cat having a sudden relapse (if it hasn't already) and an emergency call to the vet...(just make sure you let the cat in on the plan, so it doesn't freak out).
I think justcallmepapa is on to something here. Does your vet do housecalls? Does your vet charge extra for midnight emergencies? How well can your cat fake illness? These are important questions, Dirk, and we'd appreciate a prompt reply.
GREAT post Dirk, very very funny. I've been the subject of those idiots in their go-carts trying to run my over too. And then blaming me, I've been there as well.
I live in L.A., home of women-who-dress-beyond-their-years. It's an epidemic here, you learn to ignore it.
So, when are you asking the vet out?
Post a Comment
I live in L.A., home of women-who-dress-beyond-their-years. It's an epidemic here, you learn to ignore it.
So, when are you asking the vet out?
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]
