Thats good. My analyst always says that I need to show myself that people like me. I DO think that people like me, in fact I KNOW that people like me. They say so. They always say how much they like me and how much they admire my knife/gun/large stick. Then I kill them. That way they'll like me for eternity.
I think I'd like to be God, but I hav'nt got the experience yet.
Mind you, when you think about it, God never had to sit through an interview to get his job. I suppose he's self-employed in a way. Must give him plenty of time to go to the pub with his mates.
I walk down to the local pub. There's a singles night on tonight. Lots of pathetic, sad, lonely, middle aged, sex-starved gits all trying to get laid.
My type of people !
I walk in, silence hits the room. The silence is deafening.....
Everyone is looking at me. I panic. No. Don't panic. Deep Breath. Deep Breath.
It must be my outfit. I'm dressed to kill. All the girls (and one or two of the more enlightened men) are looking at me and gasping with barely suppressed desire
I'm wearing my suit tonight. I did'nt think it would fit, but it does. So long as I don't cross my legs too quickly or bend my arms. Its tight in all the right places (and some places I did'nt know I had places...Weird, but pleasant)
I think the fluorescent green tie sets the flares off just right. And the polka dot shirt is really chic.
I glide across to the bar on my platform boots.
"Pint of vodka in a straight glass with a Newcastle Brown chaser please"
The woman behind the bar nods to herself in approval. She must think I'm an eccentric millionaire. Her eyes light up as I pass the American Express gold card over the bar (amazing what you find in other peoples pockets is'nt it ?)
I lean on the bar and drink the vodka, carefully appraising the crowd. I catch a glimpse of a naked baboon, limbo dancing on the ceiling. I check the label on the vodka.....Ivans Traditional Vietnamese Vodka. Ah, that explains it.
Then our eyes meet. It's just like in the books. A warm, moist feeling that starts in my groin and ends up dribbling out off my ears. Love.
Then I realise....Its a mirror.
Not that I'm narcistic (I don't really know what 'narcistic' means) but I do believe that I'm the most perfect, sexy, hunk of male flesh I've ever laid my eyes on.
I begin my patented "Find the Sad Desperate Woman" technique.
Two hours later I find her. I jump to my feet and my head bounces noisily on the floor. Bum.
I forgot the platform shoes make any leg manoeuvres dangerous. I pick myself up and drop straight into 'Pull' mode.
Seconds later I'm dabbing at my nose with a handkerchief. Damn forgot to avoid the mirror.
I stand next to the girl, my eyes take in every aspect of her face and body.
Nice legs (I hope the wrinkles are her stockings) Hips and bum are pretty good (lots to grab hold of) Nice flat stomach (well bits of it are flat) Nice boobs (I think those small, misshaped lumps are her breasts) Full lips and mouth (Don't get your head too close) Long, sharp nose (Beware of sudden head movement) Mousy blond hair (I like blonds, I can close my eyes and pretend they are Kim Bassinger)
Not perfect, but then again neither am I.......
OK, here we go.
"Hi would you like to see my solar heated, four wheel drive Igloo" I say, in my best accent (The one that I use on the phone and for offering my condolences at funerals)
"What !" she says "Solar heat...."
She's heard of me. I can always tell. The way the eyes double in width and the twitch that starts in the corner of the mouth. Never mind, play it cool.
"Yea, its the new GTi model with the sunroof and central locking wardrobes"
"You, Wh..., Wh.., urgghhhh !" She stammers (I have this effect on girls)
Her eyes roll to the top of her head and she hits the floor with a soft thud. She's obviously had too much to drink.
I step over her prone body and head back to the bar, pausing only to have a quick dance with the good looking iguana in the c---tail dress. (People don't get within 10 feet of you when you're dancing with a good looking Iguana, I can tell you.)
I hit the bar and it begins to flow and melt like warm chocolate. I grab the bottle of vodka and make a run for it.
The floor ducks and weaves under my feet but I'm in control. I pause just long enough to empty the contents of the bottle. I run.
I hit the door at full speed. The door hits me back. I rebound and land 15 feet away in a multicoloured heap of humanity. I smash the multicoloured humanity over the head with the empty bottle (It always takes a lot to make me let go of a bottle), he falls away from me and the liquid floor swallows him with an apologetic belch. The room is awash with gasps of horror and revulsion. I can hear sirens in the distance. I struggle to me feet and dive through an inviting window.
I hit the street at a dead run, my feet beat a tattoo on the pavement. I've lost a shoe and my tie is ripped. I can feel the hot fetid breath of the Demon Alcohol on my neck but I don't fret and worry. I've been here before and I always out run him...........
And so to bed.
Its was a good night really (in comparison) I think I'll go back next week, the Vietnamese Vodka was good. Maybe I should have left my telephone number with that girl. I'm sure she'd be interested in me, once she got to know and love all my little quirks and moods.
Maybe next week.........
Check out the rest of ". . . And Still The Moon"
Submitted By: Anonymous