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Looking in the mirror, I turned a sardonic eye on my eye. And I won't mince words with you, gentlemen: what I saw turned my stomach. No, this had to be the last straw. Was my eye serious? After everything that had just happened? Yes it was, apparently. Yes it was. Shameless was the word. As if it would result in the last 36 hours being magically erased from my consciousness, my eye was breezily affecting the moist, fawn-eyed innocence of young, Ed Sullivan-era Paul McCartney. A little late doncha think, guy? Events had certainly proven that others could easily be charmed by my eye's dewy earnestness...but apparently it had forgotten its owner would--must--know firsthand the perverse lusts, murderous envy and unmitigated malice lurking behind its cloudless, nonchalant facade. Um...I was there dude, remember? I mean are you bluffing? Frankly, my eye's assumption that I shared its delusional self-regard (or would at least happily play along with it) bordered on the pathological. I shook my head slowly at my eye with the steely, righteous contempt of Clint Eastwood confronting a meth-addled beatnik. Surprise surprise...far from evincing any kind of remorse, my eye smirked out at me defiantly from its socket, as if to say, "you aren't gonna do anything, guy...cause if you do you're going down too." What's more I had conjunctivitis! Crusty pus-shrapnel lined my lids and lashes like sparrows perched on a telephone wire. The itching was satanic, and only the thought of my ophthalmologist's white-hot disapproval kept me from clawing at my retinas like Oedipus on the 4th of July. I forced my arms to remain where they were (in a karate stance) and counted to a hundred, perspiration flowing down my forehead in hypocycloid-patterned rivulets. My neurons and C-fibers felt stretched to breaking point. At long last the itching subsided a little. A concentrated dose of hatred seeped through my vitals and settled near the pit of my bowels. I had not broken eye contact with my eye all this time, and with iron self control I addressed it, forcing my internal voice to come out casual, toneless, indifferent. Congratulations, buddy. This round goes to you. Careful though...you don't wanna win the battle but lose the war. Plain as day, a twinkle of hilarity passed through my eye. Keep laughing, esé...cause I'm gonna tell you a little joke of my own. Has to do with toothpicks, habanero peppers, a staple remover and a garlic press... My mind made up, I relaxed--as a matter of fact I felt elated. That little cunt was a goner.

Date Written: September 28, 2009
Author: Jon Matza
Average Vote: 4.16667

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