VELMA’S NEKKID CITY
HIPPOS ALWAYS BE STEALING MY MAN
And wouldn’t you know it, Velma gets a gusher of a ‘monster’al period the night Gary was coming over. My ex-old man, Kermit–we went out (not too often, believe me) for almost a month, two Sabres seasons ago, when The Dominator was still here–used to say about my periods, “I’m afraid of anything that bleeds for five days and doesn’t die.” But, I really liked Kermit. He could be really sweet. Except he had this thing called CVS, or Cyclical Vomiting Syndrome, and I had saved up some money from working over to the plant and took us on a vacation cruise to the Bermudas. It was real nice and not even weird. Everybody talked English and had heard of all the same music from here and the TV shows and everything. So when we got to Bermuda and went to the hotel, Kermit starts throwing up like he had drunk twenty pitchers of peach schnapps or whatever. I mean he was fine on the boat and everything, when I all’s I wanted to do was puke, but he got really sick in the hotel room. I was like “Hey, I didn’t pay for all this shit to watch you curled up on the fucking bathroom floor like Rod Stewart or some fucking faggot who just had 20 guys jizz into his gullet or whatever.” And he was like, “Velma, I’m really sick. It’s this condition I’ve had since…” Then he’d go back to heaving again, making these animal sounds from way down in his guts, and all’s I was thinking was, wussy, pussy, sissy. I mean I could see if he had eaten some old, warm oysters or drank like two bottles of pure grain or something but “condition” and “syndrome.” Cut me a little for real time, loser. Do you want your mommy to come over and give you a hot water enema and wash your little pea pod nut sack off with a silk napkin?
I went out anyway and danced all night with this really cute guy from Tampa, Florida or somewhere who said he sometimes, in Florida, danced in girl’s clothes for money or whatever. I thought, whatever blows the gas outta your ass, fella. Fucking freak, if you ask Velma.
So now, Gary is on his way over and I was going to wear these really tight Lycra, crotch-hugger shorts but I had this huge pussy mop taped to my bloomers. So I had to put on this slinky black dress that I haven’t worn since I used to go to Bisons’ games cause everybody said that some of those ballplayers were going to get rich one day and they were from out of town and were all from the country someplace and were supposed to be married and have like five kids by now, to cover up the Kotex, but it still showed. And this dress has those, like, thin bra straps, so you can’t wear a bra–unless it’s black and then you look like a tramp–and don’t leave much to the imagination in the juggy region. But nine o’clock came and went and then ten o’clock went by and he didn’t answer his phone so I thought I would go over to The Tralf, which is where he said we were going to go cause, he said, it was a real classy joint, and see if his bald ass was down there.
So when I got there the cover was like twelve fucking dollars for this band I never heard of called Ike Turner (I mean, I could see it if it was Tina Turner or whatever) but these guys that I did know about, Willie & the Reinhardts, were playing too and I thought maybe they might remember me from when they played at The Mohawk Place after Pat Benetar at Thursday In The Square, so I tried talking to the door guy for a minute but this prissy little twit with an ass as flat as a used rubber kept butting in. So, I just paid so I could get away from them.
Big surprise, I don’t see Gary anywhere. And I’m drinking these Jaegermeister and vodka shooters and I see this guy I remember from high school, Paul Kosmk. And I says, “Hey, Mr. K. bet you don’t remember me.” And he looks at me like “Huh?” It was real funny. Then I said, “we made out together,” (I don’t think we ever did, but I always wanted to). “Don’t you remember me?” And this hoggy bitch on the barstool behind him rears up and says to Paul “Who’s your friend?” And now Paul gets squirmy, stammering and shit and says, “Uh, this is, um…” I says “Velma, honey” And all she says is “Oh” and looks away. Paul is friendly though and we talk and then he remembers me and I buy him a drink and the whole time Miss Piggy is pouting and acting all catty. Then, when Paul walked back to look at t-shirts by the front door, I went back and talked to him a little more and we were standing in the hallway by the restrooms and I was leaning against the wall and he reached out to touch my arm and Bertha Butt came rumbling down the hall and gets all bitchy with Paul and pulls him into the ladies’ john and I wait like five minutes and then Paul comes out and won’t even look at me.
So I push in the door of the john and Fatsack is in the mirror doing damage control and I say, “Hey, cuntscab, what’s your problem with me?” And she’s just like, “Oh, whatever do you mean?” So I just shove her into one of the stalls and grab her by the back of her bleached-out straw mop and push her over the toilet and turn her head toward me and say “I hate twats like you. You’re gonna lick my wad, you fucking cow.” And she’s all terrified and shit like some snively little cheerleader. But I just don’t give a fuck. I’m so fucking sick of these blimps running around spreading it for any guy drunk enough to pump them. And I pushed the heifer’s face down between my legs and pulled up my dress and …
Velma had a bad week. I hate those fucking hippos.