THE SALSA DIARIES #3
My Flatulent Empire Is Crumbling
The broken wind of a Monday morning
I first noticed the cracks on a Monday morning. My gimp was unable to get hard and I needed plugging. In a rage, I struck it several times. It grunted but the appendix refused to rise. What more could I do?
I needed entertainment. It isn’t easy living in a grand chateau and not having anything to do. The remote was lost last week, shoved up the arse of some beast, and the pool was flooded with some weird aquatic lurky as a result of a heavy dose of fecal matter.
What a shit Monday I thought. What’s the point of being filthy rich if I can’t get any relief from the boredom of life?
I speed-dialed Jesus. The second son of god was always up for a laugh.
“Yo, JC! Whassup bruh?” He likes to think he’s a little gangsta since the resurrection. He tells me he’s the only son of god and I should stop disrespecting him. Fucking Jesus was certainly better than humping day-old pizza but he ain’t no saint.
Jesus was in a slump too. Turns out, on his day off from being worshipped, he had an altercation at a local 7–11. He was pissed. The cops mistook him for a crazed robber on account of his black skin and dodgy hoodie. JC’s beatific smile couldn’t save him and they shot several rounds into his already-dead and twice risen corpse.
It’s best not to ask too many questions from the force.
Meanwhile, Michael Bauble was crooning about Christmas as JC’s blood dripped a festive red on the sludged-up snow.
“Fuck…here we go again,” I thought. JC loved drama. I could see him licking his lips as he changed gears in retelling his tall tale. There’s nothing he likes better than rising from the dead and scaring the good folk into believing in miracles. That’s how his mom conceived he would say with a wink.
“Jesus. JESUS! Just fucking stop. I don’t need to hear about another fucking resurrection on a Monday morning. I thought you had some nose candy that you scored off Magdalene. Now crack that shit open and let's get a fucking party started! I’ve got a marketing meeting in ten and your shit is getting old.”
Nobody puts Jesus in the corner. Offended, he bitch-slaps my gimp before storming off in a huff.
I’m now suffering from withdrawal. It’s still fucking Monday. My gimp isn’t giving out any pleasure and worse of all? It’s time for Secret Santa. Our yearly celebration where dirty Macca sweats his way through a Santa suit making every female staff member awkwardly sit on his lap. The bloody perv will already be half-drunk on cheap scotch. His hands wandering over limbs while readjusting his pants.
I’ve got no game. I’m out of ideas. At least it’s Intern Torture week. Perhaps that’ll bring the gimp back to life.
I sure love the fucking holiday season.
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