I sat in that fucking restaurant booth for forty five minutes after I ordered before they brought the food over.
It was really good, the best I have had in a long while in all fairness, but why the wait? I sat and watched people that ordered after me get their food way before me. I was more disappointed than angered as I had been recommended by a friend.
Without being rude I pulled the waitress over during my meal and asked why such a delay.
She explained that human flesh was one of the speciality dished and not on the menu. They had to kill one of the crack-heads from out back just to meet the order. Next time I was to book ahead, just in case.
I didn’t get a discount for my wait and the gratuity was included in the bill, a big fat 18%, but I did get the waitresses number. I’m having her for diner Thursday.
By the power of Ra, some people need a bat around the back of their head.
Spent a grand total of thirty minutes in town yesterday morning and had to go home before I ended up getting arrested.
Saying that I did see some drunken Russian shoplifter put up a fight with security outside the supermarket.
So I decided to plot up for a bit and get some work done to try and relax. Turns out, I had a rather productive day and smashed my personal best word count. Amazing what a little anger can do for the focus of the mind.
I guess it’s just my Zen state.
Seriously I can’t function unless I’m pissed off or a little depressed. It just doesn’t sit right if I’m happy. I don’t wear it well, like a really itchy pair of pants, I fidget.
So at some point I’m bound to do or say something to piss myself off. Like go into town with all the mongs!
But while I was doing the hermit thing, I rekindled my love for Russ Meyer by watching ‘Faster Pussycat, Kill, Kill’ and ‘Up’.
What’s not to love with these movies?
Strippers and Nazis, flick knives and big tits, romps, rumbles and sinister plans all rolled into a frenzied ball of free love, cheap thrills and cigarette smoke. Throw in the scent of expensive perfume and burning rubber and you are in my kind of Promised Land.
Beware; the cutest kittens have the sharpest claws. Classic.
If I could live my life in some dimension that was based on any directors films it would be the films of Russ Meyers. (Possibly David Lynch, might have to toss a coin.)
This is the man that paved the way for the Pope of Trash himself, John Waters, and look at the films that man has produced over the years, everyone a master-class in sleaze.
I would love to have the shit beaten out of me and my car stolen by some motor cycle riding raven haired, big breasted Amazonian hell cat in an all in one leather jump suit with a zip up the front. Dream come true time. I wouldn’t even care if some beatnik dude that was her slave filmed it on his 16mm.
If you have never heard of either Russ Meyers or John Waters not only should you jump out of a high window, hopefully falling to your deaths, but you should also check the IMDB links below.
Russ Meyer- http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000540/
John Waters- http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000691/?ref_=nv_sr_1
Sounds strange but I would love to get into a bar fight with a Meyer inspired style woman; I wouldn’t even get too pissed off if she smashed her 40oz over my head and took my wallet.
Imagine an old school style rumble with a female bike gang in tight cat suits, swinging chains about and throwing glasses like there was no tomorrow. “The fight aint over until some gets thrown out a window!” Just the idea of watching huge titted women snapping pool cues over cowboy’s heads and pulling guns in gas stations just gives me a semi. Thank you Mr Meyer, thank you.
The only way I could submerge myself into this world is to start writing and making pulp trash books and films. So I better get my thinking cap on. If any buxom/feisty young lovely’s want to ‘get them out’ in the name of (sleaze) art then let me know. Flick knives, knuckle dusters and leathers will be provided. The looser the better… morally I mean.
I recon I could knock out a trash novel in a week with enough coffee and doughnuts to keep we awake. And shit, if I can put together a cleaver script for a fifteen minute short film in a day then a pulp film should take me a brief afternoon. I might have to invest in some cheap speed?!?
So it’s time for a shift in my life, onward and upward, bigger and better things and all that.
This is not to say that I will turn my back on the gory horror that I love, havens no, if anything it will be a huge part of the trash that I shall start creating. The bloodshed will be the catalyst for the big knackered adventures that will spew forth onto the page through my fingertips. And all you fucking twats that give me the hump will be slaughtered in a bloodbath of a bar fight that rumbles within the confines of my squalid little brain.
You are all fucked… but not as fucked as me.
So as l prop up the sticky bar after several lines in the toilet of the Black Rose, I watch the scantily clad karaoke singer screech her way through Tina Turner’s ‘Private Dancer’. I can’t help but want to throw a glass.
She was attractive, but only in the way a middle aged dropout hooker can be. Weathered but experienced, beaten but ballsy. Something in her eyes that said she cries herself to sleep every night.
Then the air turned a different kind of blue as the girls from the roller derby slammed through the back door, spilling into the bar in a frenzy of giggling sexual aggression.
No one could help but stare as the busty tearaways stalked through the bar; all legs and tits spilling out of jump suits, high heels and tape wrapped fingers from back ally brawls.
The leader with the blond pig tails leaned over to some sap on his own; he tried to hide his erection but couldn’t his blushes as she held him by the throat and downed his pint of light and mild.
She unzipped her suit down to her naval, her large breasts just about holding the leather shut and scanned the bar.
I knew then that I would never love again.
See, how easy was that? Not bad, eh?