Taken out of context, this is still odd and funny. An excerpt from a good, if unconventional writer:
On the second floor, I buy a coke from McDonald's and drink it. Michelle and the others are sitting near me, pretending that we don't know each other. They're laughing and talking, and I wonder what they're talking about. Sheryl really does dress like an idiot. She's great. They both are. I walk up to the front, and slam the coke down on the counter beside the cash register. "The manager," I say to the twelve year old girl they've got working. I think she's twelve, anyway. I have no idea how quick girls develop these days. I saw something on TV about it, I think. All these hormones in their milk at breakfast, in their cereal, fucking them up. Maybe little girls are born with tits now? She's still young enough to be a ballerina, isn't she? I've missed so many opportunities. I'll never be a ballerina. It's too late. I missed the boat. I made the wrong choices. I couldn't even be a high school dropout if I wanted to. Still, I'll get to be a cantankerous old man, one day, with a walking stick to shake at all the little five year old girls with their tits all hanging out.
The manager is skinny and balding. "Is there something I can help you with?" he says, and I give him a long stare, and then look down at the coke. He follows my gaze. "There's something wrong with your beverage, sir?" he asks. "You tell me," I say, and push the coke towards him. "I bought this coke five minutes ago. I thought I would stop off on my way home and buy a book at the mall, maybe have a coke. It's my girlfriend's birthday, though, so I didn't want to take too long. I planned on slipping her the dick, if you know what I mean." "What seems to be the problem, sir?" he says, and it's like he's reading lines out of a fast food manager script. Everyone talks the way they're supposed to these days. It's like we've become the voices for our institutions. He's the fast food manager, and I'm the disgruntled customer. In a few seconds I'll go back to being the frustrated genderqueer faggot and he'll be the frustrated manager. Either way, you could listen to us talk for five minutes and figure out who we are. "This coke made me gay," I say. I hold out my hand for him to examine it. "Look at that. I've never had a manicure in my life, but now my nails are neat and tidy. Neat and tidy! I work in a factory, man. I can't have the guys at work thinking I've been filing my nails instead of biting them down." "The pop made you gay?" he says, and now he's the sarcastic fast food worker, embittered etc. The big-titty twelve year old is covering her mouth, pretending not to laugh. He gives her a dirty look. "What am I going to do now?" I say. "I have a girlfriend at home, waiting for my Johnson Special, and all I'm thinking about is how to do her hair!" The manager is looking behind me now. "Hey! I said my girlfriend loves cock! You look at me when I'm talking to you about my lost heterosexuality." "I'm sorry, there are customers waiting," he says. "If you have a valid complaint, you can call the head office." I open my mouth to say something, but Michelle interrupts me. "I don't mean to interrupt," she says. The manager is smiling again, and he shakes his head. "Not at all, ma'am." He says. "Is there something I can help you with?" "I sure hope so," she tells him. "I think this coke turned my friends gay." She points over her shoulder, where Gilyan and Sheryl are making out in their chairs. Customers all over the store are staring.
"I don't mind or anything," Michelle says, "I mean, six in ten people are queer these days or something. Whatever. It's just that we have to get to a swim meet, and I'm worried that they'll be too busy thinking about vaginas to focus on their warm up exercises. Is there anything you can do? Have you got any pepsi, maybe?"
"You probably have to call the head office," I tell her, and Michelle nods, thoughtfully.
*excerpted from http://www.lockpickbook.net/ - It sort of leaves you feeling violated and possibly thoughtful, blatant with self-hate and a message that you can almost see, if you squint hard enough.
Dys
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