I’ma take off my jeans. No, now, don’t go a-fussin’—it’s for your own good. You see, these here jeans, I don’t know where they been. They come a-strollin’ in four-oh-six in the ay em this mornin’, all smug as you please, grinnin’ pocket to pocket, like the cat broke the canary.
I swear, I ain’t no lemon-curd pushover, but I’ma ‘bout to have words. I mean, who’s the boss here anyway? No goddam Levis mother-fucker, that’s for sure!
Now why you go and start cryin’? Ain’t you never seen a red-blooded American man in his skivvies before? I thought all you gals been around the block and then some. I thought all you gals tumbled and twitted and faceliked and knew the score. I thought all you gals knew what you was for.
But here you are— Now what’d I say about cryin’? Here.
Now I done told you not to cry! Didn’t I? I told you to put a sock in your cakehole! You ain’t gonna do it, I am…
There. Now you quiet, ain’t you? Screamin’ against the sock—no, now, it was your idea, so don’t go fussin’ again—won’t do you no good. Ain’t nobody can hear you for miles, even if they was standin’ up there in the kitchen right on top a’ you, way I got things set up here. You ain’t my first, you know.
Don’t look at me like that. What’d I say?
Shut up. A little smack ain’t never hurt nobody. Your momma raise herself a baby?
Let me just get you right… Oh, you got one a’ those fancy brassieres, don’t you? One a’ those ones from that shiny store at the mall, with all the nekkid plastic gal statues in the window, the ones wearin’ the naughty undies. Well then, you just a whore, like I thought.
Never could work these hooks. Think you gals set this up just to frustrate a man from his well-deserved rewards, way the good lord intended him to have.
Oh this? This is David Bowie, I named him. ‘Cause it’s a Bowie knife, right? Somebody told me was a fella name Jim Bowie made the knife, but I don’t think that’s right. ‘Cause who ever heard a’ Jim Bowie? Everybody’s heard a’ David Bowie, that’s who! So here, I’ll just slip this big ol’ blade underneath them pesky hooks.
Ain’t that better? Them brassieres always look tight and pinchy to me. Wonder why you gals don’t just chuck ‘em and be done with it. Y’all look better without ‘em anyways. See there, what purty tits you got. And don’t tell me you don’t like this, ‘cause I got eyes the good lord gave me. I see them little nips a-perkin’ up when I pinch ‘em. You tellin’ me you don’t like that? You lyin’, that’s what. But lordy, what can a man expect from a whore?
Let me get my other tools.
Now don’t start up that screamin’ again, or I’ll be stickin’ another sock down your whore throat. Lordy, why’d the good lord ever give y’all tongues? Well, I’ll show you in a minute what that tongue is for. Here, let me wipe them tears away—can’t have my girl all sad and shit, can I? Oh now, look, your mascary done ran. Don’t worry, I’ll fix that.