the cheese stands alone

You Do Not Talk About Fight Club

They might have been a match made in heaven, but it was the relationship from hell.
(warning: in order to preserve historical accuracy, the "fuck" word is used here. Often. A lot, in fact. Real life sometimes needs emphasis.)

From the minute the overly-chromed, lowriding Toyota pulled into the parking lot, still covered in shaving cream and "Just Married!" signs, and the happy couple piled out screaming at each other, we all knew we'd best set our VCRs, because the main show was going to be over in apartment 2D.

She had one tone of voice: shrieking.
He had one response: "Fuck you, bitch!" followed by a squealed-tire exit.

So when the shouting out on the street started up this afternoon, I really didn't pay much attention. It was just the usual foreplay.

"Yo! Yo! *honk honk honk* YO, BITCH!"
*balcony door slamming open* What you screamin' at ME for, muthafucka?"
"Yo, bitch, bring me my jacket."
"Jacket this, dickhead. I ain't your slave."
*balcony door slams closed*
*extended honking* "BITCH! I'M TALKIN' TO YOU, BITCH! "
*balcony door slams open* "Shut up, asshole, you makin' a scene."
"I want my fuckin' jacket! Fuck your scene, you get me my fuckin' jacket NOW!"
"Oh, you want your jacket? Mr. Dickhead wants his jacket? Okay, boy, I give you your fuckin' jacket."
*pause*
"HERE your jacket, asshole."

And from the balcony flew a very nice jacket.... on fire. It landed in the parking lot in a smoldering pile. The Groom ran over and did a little dance on it.

"BITCH, YOU CRAZY?"
*balcony door slams shut, slams open*
Then the rain of belongings began. Shirts, shoes, pants, CD player, CDs, a toaster still in the box with a pretty silver bow on it, a clock radio....
The Bride was cleaning house. She had a pretty good pitching arm, too. Everytime the Groom would dash in to grab something, she'd nail him with a shoe or a picture frame.

Finally she got tired, and went back in the house, oddly quiet. The Groom stood on the sidewalk, looking at his stuff, and after gathering it all up and depositing it in the car, he stood underneath the balcony like Romeo without a clue.

"Baby? Yo, baby?"
*balcony door slams open* "Uh huh, babe?"
"I bet home 'bout 6, you want some Mickey D?"
"Yeah, baby, get me Big Mac and fries, okay?"
"Okay."
*balcony door slams shut*

Ain't love grand?

Posted by LeeAnn at December 5, 2003 09:54 PM