Okay, this is going to be pretty weak as far as Pit rants go, but DAMN I’m ticked.
Hey! YOU! Yes, you! The freakish template for Grandpa Simpson. Who the HELL do you think you are? Let me give you a clue. I’m VERY particular about who I let touch me. Not only are you not on the list, but you are nowhere NEAR the list. See that transvestite prostitute over there? Yeah, the one who’s got her penis duct-taped so tightly it’s gonna fall off? And the track marks? I’d let HER touch me LONG before I let your gnarled, FREEZING COLD corpse hands in my personal space.
Look you formaldyhyde-swilling methusala fuckhead, just because you’re in Vegas and five minutes from the viagra kicking in does NOT give you the right to accost everything wandering around with breasts. Yes, I had a half-shirt on. Yes, I was wearing leather pants. Yes, that placed my navel in plain sight (THE HORROR) and probably marked me as a high-class hooker. Staring is one thing… I expected that (if you’d been about 300 years younger, I would’ve HOPED for it). Sure it’s a little creepy, considering I could be your great-great-great granddaughter and all, but I can deal. But you SO crossed the line here, and you’re damn lucky I didn’t go biblical on your ass. Just because you SEE exposed skin does NOT give you permission to TOUCH the skin.
Oh, and how many times did you practice that cute little pickup line, anyway? “Why don’t you have a diamond in your bellybutton” indeed. You offering, Gramps? Cause the way I see things, you’d drop dead of a heart attack as soon as I bared an ankle. As long as I got the diamond up front, it wouldn’t be a problem.
I’d say a heary fuck you, but you’d probably take it as an invitation. So I’ll leave you with this: I hope you got your thrills. I hope you go home and share with Andy and Barney and Otis the story of the hot little redhead that let you fondle her bare stomach. I’m sure you’ll leave out the part where she had to physically restrain her friends from slowly breaking every one of your fingers, ripping your tongue out to leave as a snack for The Amazing We’re-Not-Assfucking-The-Hell-Out-Of-Each-Other-Really-We-Like-Women magicians’ white tigers, and giving the rest of your scrawny, english setter-looking body to the aforementioned transvestite prostitute. Above all, I hope that at some point in your vacation, when you pulled your head out of the slot machines and made it out of the bar, you tried this little game with someone who had much less restraint than I. And I hope- since you didn’t seem phased by the rather large guy who was with us- that she beats the fuck out of you, then allows her male companion to prop you up by shoving anything within arms’ reach up your constipated ass so she can do it again. Goddamn. You bring shame on all the other lecherous old men… may they revoke your membership.
[sub]Coming soon… The story behind the following exchange:
“Would it be possible to sing an a capella song? It’s in Gaelic.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t let you do that. Even if you are a lesbian.”[/sub]
:rolleyes:
-BK
One little thing, though… he wasn’t surly. If he HAD been, he would’ve gone up a notch or two on the ‘okay, maybe if I put a bag over both our heads I could find you attractive’ scale. I like surliness.