I don’t want a damned cheap ass neon-colored rape whistle I want to liquate the fucker’s head like the squash I blasted away last week point-blank, the victim laid up against the bank of a bullet-beat dirt pile personified it’s Squashie in a picture by Pixar voiced by Billy Crystal and all Squashie’s buddies in the patch below vine-bound to the ground looking on screaming and me the executioner without an exhale BLAMO! In 3-D the squash juice would shoot out at the audience and it’d be rated R no doubt, but I digress you just don’t understand what it’s like the stock of the shotgun shoving hard against my hard pressed shoulder slamming back against me I’d fuck it if I could, it’s big dicked power that my scrawny ass can never have, that a teeny can of watery mace dribbling down my hand could never hope, that a blade pulled out would never wield, not fast enough, and most of all and most importantly and it goes without saying that fucking piece-of-shit plastic whistle is the worst thing of all, I wouldn’t blow it out of embarrassment I refuse to make a duck call to darkness in dim hopes that Mr. Apparent Good Guy or Good Guys will eventually wander over in the drunkenness of a Friday night to scare off the unknown figure mid coitus, it turns my gut upside down thinking stronger strangers are in complete control of my orifices and you feminists saying it’s my body and my choice but if I can’t land a K-O punch well I’m S-O-L, I say let the fucker think he’s gonna make it in a deserted parking garage I’m sick of packs of three and preachy talks and pretentious self-defense nonsense I don’t want good Samaritans and undue fear I want the power and the presence and the reckoning of a fully loaded weapon tucked into my purse with the safety off and ready to liquate.
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