Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Spike Heels and Skin Tight Jeans

She’s a vampire, she has to be. I can’t believe that she’s able to see her reflection in the mirror. Why else would anyone leave the house with a spare tyre like that jiggling over her hipsters? The whale tail of her thong points to a string troubling her big arse like a cheese cutter driving through a squishy mozzarella ball. Ah I just love birds like that, I don’t feel so bad about the way I look when I see them. OK, often they’re still way thinner than me, but at least I’m not openly humiliating myself by drawing attention to my shit bits.

She lurches at the policemen wrestling with her rubber boyfriend. She’s all pasty arms and spray-on denim legs flailing in different directions. Her blue-black hair is straightened within an inch of its life and swooshes around in a glassy sheet.

“Fuckeeeeen let him go let him go, ya basturts!”

Another police guy grabs her arm and pushes it up her back. Her fuck-me 4 inchers skid along the concrete as he pushes her against the mouldy wall. He can’t half move in that massive fluorescent jacket.

“What are ye arrestin me for?”

Her body is rigid and stiff with rage. A stupid move as it just makes her easier to hold. Her wriggly boyfriend is a trickier fish to pin down and four rozzers are still trying to get a grip when she’s tossed in the back of the van. Somehow, the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms has worked its way halfway down his thighs and his pants are in hot pursuit, showing a hairy arse crack. So at least the couple are united in their undignified fashion. In a way, it’s a bit like those square head couples you see in matching Barbour jackets and Arran jumpers.

As the mesh inner gates of the van are slammed on her, she throws herself up against them, like a caged animal, kicking out in those killer stilettos. Surely it must hurt, but she’s probably too pissed to notice. Besides, opportunities to act in your own soap opera don’t come along every day, you might as well create as much dramatic effect as possible. As the first door is slammed on her she starts screaming like a psycho, it’s hard to work out exactly what she’s saying, but it’s fair to say that 80% of the words are “fuck”-based. I can’t help snort a laugh out as the second door is slammed on her and she’s cut off: “fuckeeen bastu…” It’s like switching the telly off.

A police guy has lost his cap and it rolls for a couple of metres along the gutter. One lad picks it up and goes to put it on, but thinking better of it he casually Frisbees it off the copper’s baldie head. The hatless policeman is still on his knees struggling to hold on to the boyfriend’s arm. He looks up and glares at us.

I’m trying to remember that joke about there being a religion called Frisbeeterianism. I think the punch line is something like “they believe that when you die your soul floats up and gets stuck on the garage roof”. It must be funnier than that, but anyway, inside my head I don’t have to have the perfect punch line. It’s funny anyway.

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