Wednesday, August 19, 2009
There are three cunts at the bar and only one of them is a woman. The other two are men. They were here first and then this woman showed up. They are all friends. She has just bought a new pair of shoes and she is ecstatic. She loves her new shoes so much that she has taken them out of the bag, out of the box, removed the white tissue paper wrapping, and flopped them on the bar for all to see. Apparently, they are the most comfortable shoes in the world. I immediately begin to despair, as I now know that the most comfortable shoes in the world can never belong to me, and that has been one of my lifelong aspirations. Goddamn my luck. Regardless, the other two cunts begin to fawn over her new shoes. They’re gay men. Generally, I’m a big fan of gay men. I tend to be a big fan of anything that challenges or offends tepid, mainstream Christian American values. These two are cunts, however, because they’re shallow, catty, prissy, bitchy, and condescending. Those qualities are repulsive in anybody. I don’t believe that sexual orientation excuses that sort of bullshit. Man or woman, doesn’t matter. I’ve been listening to them talk and now they’re fueling the diluted, content-free, rented identity of this woman. She’s young and pretty and she’s got a few tasteful tattoos on her ankle. They’re some sort of Asian calligraphic symbols. She’s not Asian and I seriously doubt that Asian culture means that much to her. The small tasteful tattoos are absolutely inane. They’re a fashion accessory. Literally translated, they mean, “Fuck you, Japan. We bombed you silly about 50 years ago, and now we’re going to steal and bastardize your culture. It makes me feel enlightened. Would you like fries with that? Please pull around.” She’s also got a hemp necklace containing big, brightly colored glass beads, and a pair of expensive sunglasses worn atop her head to hold back her curly brown hair. Everything the gay men are wearing is expensive, nondescript, and not worth listing. The three of them are complaining about a “frumpy” woman at the gym, who often smells bad and wears ridiculous, unkempt clothes. Everybody at this bar is pretentious and cancerous. I want to cover them with gasoline and burn them all alive. They’re not looking down at this end of the bar. I suspect it’s because they hate us and we don’t belong here. We would not come here if they didn’t have such great beer and pizza at such great prices. It’s so cheap, and so ironic, given that this bar is located in the most expensive part of town. It’s a very posh neighborhood and I guess that explains the clientele. They’re rich, pretentious, bitchy, shallow pieces of shit who have never worked or suffered. They have no permanent sense of identity or lasting content. They’re rented. High rent, but rented. Fortunately, there’s an Internet jukebox with lots of Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, and Kiss, and I have lots of small bills.