Saturday, July 02, 2005

Man and Man

At Banana Chic's, Prudie offered to be an ovum as Banana Chic and I put our hands behind our backs, bent our waists and wiggled around the kitchen/dining room area like retarded sperm. We butt heads trying to impregnate the target; I won after an aggressive effort.


Thursday, Prudie, Banana Chic, J.Lo and I danced our way through Toronto in the clubbing district. We sashayed our way through the crowd as I tore unappealing hands off my shoulders and waist. "The party's not here and no, you're not invited," when one demon in a flipped-up collar tried to turn on his fermented charm.

J.Lo's boyfriend had insisted that he drive us there; he didn't trust her around the opposite sex. This man, for whom I will only refer to by gender, is a mysoginistic dick (ironic, because he's also a homophobe -- I remarked how narcissistic he was for assuming both men and women would even admit to approaching his shit-stained ass). After sleeping over at Banana Chic's in Mississauga, he picked the rest of us up and that's when the troubles began.

It started out as a friendly debate. It swerved into violent territory, with him flying off his handle on the highway, trying to run the car dangerously off the road while speeding. He had made the mistake of stating all women were, by nature, submissive then glanced lovingly at J.Lo. "Take off your silly ass Castro hat when you talk to me," I said after he interrupted me for the umpteenth time when I tried to be rational and patient with him. I told him I didn't "appreciate" the way he was "speaking for me." He fancied himself a thug and told me I should go back to reading the dictionary. "You don't know what it's like on the streets," he lectured, quite explosively. "You think you can talk to men that way? They will cut you up." I rolled down the window and zoned out because his suburb is just that much more dangerous than mine:

"Look out! A Lincoln Navigator! I heard lawyers drive those *scurries away and jumps behind a trimmed hedge*"

The previous evening, he threatened to break-up with J.Lo because he was angry at her for not being considerate enough to invite him along whenever we girls found the time from our busy (and frequently conflicting) schedules to meet up. Thus, he drove us to Toronto and got us lost, twice, because he wouldn't admit to going the opposite direction (hmm, maybe he shouldn't have purposely gone off the west ramp -- when MapQuest specifically said east -- just to prove his prickly and pickly manhood).

There's something wholly sinister about this boy. Recently turned 21, a callow lad with an unadorned personality, he has the intelligence of a congenital crack baby and the body of a broomstick mistaken for a jersey rack at the Niketown Defect Outlet. I tried to use the abused housewife analogy to get J.Lo to wake up to his plastic facade during the argument to no avail. His baby, baby, babys and I love yous were an oil slick on the surface of a malaria-ridden watering hole. It angers me that this girl's co-dependency has grown to such proportions. There's more generosity in her than the late King Hussein, but her fragility rivals that of the Bubble Boy. So in the words of Banana Chic, we're no angels, we can't be responsible for helping her create detours only to see her drive back on to the main road time and time again. "She has to love herself first." For once, an after-school message with relevance.

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