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"Ya got a fag?" asked the stranger.
I had no idea what this guy was talking about. A fag?
"What are you talking about?" I queried.
"A fag," he says, and then points at my mouth, as if he wants me to suck him off.
"Hey, get the fuck away from me, you degenerate piece of shit!" I'm screaming, as if someone got between me and my smack. Which actually happened last Tuesday, but that's another story. Anyway.
He throws his hands up in the air. "I just wanted a snout, guv'nor! Yankee bastard!"
I shout after him, "Fucking Brit! Fuck you! Without the U.S.A. you'd be getting fucked in the ass by a bunch French cocksuckers who do the Germans' bidding!" I pause, out of breath, then add, "Eat me, you pasty-skinned motherfucker!"
My God, I've got a lot of anger. Where does all this bile come from? My tiny soul? The wet spot on the mattress? My gallbladder? God knows.
Fucking English. If only their bulldogs weren't so cute and their ale so delicious, I'd never have to set foot on this wretched island ever again!
"You know, you don't have to set foot on this wretched island ever again."
I whip my head around frantically, looking for whomever spoke those morsels that filled my soul with hope. Damn it, where is he?
I shout, "Damn it, where are you?"
"You can't see me. I am God, the Almighty. To look upon My brilliance is to look upon Eden, and that would kill you."
"God," I say, not so much humbled as I am out-of-my-mind with panic that I'll stop hallucinating before He tells me how I never have to come to England again. "What's the secret?"
"Dinty Moore Beef Stew."
"That is the secret?"
"No. I just wanted to see if you'd answer me with the bad accent like the little Chinese kid in the ad."
"God, it's not politically correct to say, 'Chinese kid.'"
"I created him, I can denigrate him."
I acquiesce. "Yes, God. You can."
"Thanks for clearing that up. Now do you want to know how it is you never have to come to England again?"
"Yes, by God! Yes! Please tell me! I'll work with lepers! I'll counsel fallen women! Quit using buttplugs! Anything!"
God sighs, "Douchemouth, it's simple."
How did He know my name?
"Because I'm God. Look: You have English bulldogs and ale in America, Douchemouth."
"Yes! Yes, we do! I'm a fool!"
"Yes, you are. I should smite thee for your tomfoolery. But I'll just buy you a round-trip ticket back to the U.S. as long as you promise one thing."
"Sew your ass shut for five days."
I blink once. Maybe twice. "You got it God! Hey, why do you sound like an Englishman?"
"It helps me fit in better when I shout down to people in this part of the world."
"Right! Makes perfect sense, God! Thank you!" And off I go to my glorious home, the U.S. of A.
The pasty-skinned English guy pokes his head around the corner, lowers his megaphone, and watches me walk away, comfortable in the knowledge that I'll be sewing my ass shut in a matter of moments. Limey fuck.
Date Written: October 08, 2004
Author: The Rid
Average Vote: 4.1429