Tudawr 12

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Setting: around me

Characters: me, people around me, the Universe

There is a man wearing a belly shirt showing more fat and hair than should be legally permissible. He is sporting cotton short-shorts with writing in the back that spell out “Baby-Girl”. He is wearing sparkly high heels that are clearly about to crack. “Give us, us free!” they cry under the heavyset pair of kanckles that are crushing them like an elephant wearing sparkly high heels, if the elephant was a whore.

“Hey Mister” I yell at him not really sure he answers to that suffix.

He turns around and his rose wig spins along landing unevenly on his shaven scalp.
“Yeeeees Mr. Bubbles? What can I buy from youuuu todayyyy?” he responds with a terrible English accent. He has clearly never been to Inga-land.

I’m completely confused, and I’m almost ever hardly sometimes confused except on the third of every other Tuesday on a high-solstice evening. This lady-man sees an opening in my blank stare and lunges into me with his scaly lips. I manage to move out of the way just in time to get a kiss on the lower side of my right cheek.
He had fantastically refreshing breath.

There is an old lady yelling in an unintelligible language, probably old-person language from what I can tell.

Telligible.

She is standing in the middle of the street yelling telligibly at the cars that rush past her. She only yells at the ones that honk. The others she just stares at with disdain and revenge in her eyes. When traffic disappears and she finally shuts up, I approach her and ask “What are you and the cars talking about”? She stares at me blankly. Her eyes are there but there is no one home.

“Bbbbhuuuaaaaannk” I yell at her doing my best to say hello in car, I figure maybe she’ll understand me this way.

Slapapap-pap. Triple slap attack.

As I stand there dumbfounded at the speed and agility with which I was just man-handled by an octogenarian, I see her take out a little ringing bell from her purse.  She aims it at parked cars, steadies herself and rings it. There is some lady-man lipstick on her slapping bell-ringing ninja hand.

There is a small child wearing thick bottle-bottomed eyeglasses standing on a bucket near the subway entrance, he is not more than five years old. I notice his shoelaces are untied so I walk up to him and point intently at his feet.

I must’ve scared him.

He froze, took out his inhaler, and proceeded to perform an expertly-delivered judo-chop to my crotch.  He started to run away.  I’m on the floor crouching with pain, one hand on my crotch, the other still pointing at a spot on the floor next to the bucket where his untied shoelaces had been a second ago.

Now they are a couple of feet away. They tripped the little punk. Sweet Lady Justice.  Lady-Man Justice?
Crashing. Couch. Crotch. Crutches and crouching. Triple dare you to make a sentence with all of them.  It’s weird what goes through my mind after I’ve just been punched in the sensibles.

There is a man on the floor thinking senseless anagrams. His ability to procreate in question, his face emasculated by the wisdom of dementia slaps, and his lower right cheek branded by smeared cheap transvestite lipstick.

Whatever happened to natural selection?

The Universe Remains