The Bad Boys' Soft Boys' Lonely Hearts Club - The Full Package

The Shitti Date ~ Part 4

"Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in," says the queen bitch herself, Leighlay McKenzie, as she wraps her skinny bitch-ass arms around whatever trunk of a prehistoric tree passes as Haiden's left arm.

Speaking of the unibrow Neanderthal himself, he just stands there, willing a synapse into existence. For what? Only the immutable will of the universe might know.

The wife-beater man shuffles near us, eyes wide open while looking around. "Somebody say pussy? Where pussy?"

"The only pussy I see is in front of me, bro," says Hayden.

I mimic Leighley and wrap my arms around Hayden. He feels like a friend. "Nah, babe. That's a bitch."

Leighlay goes completely red while Haiden, obviously lagging behind the conversation, opens his maw like an ancient tomb, spider-webs and all. "What cat?"

The wife-beater man takes a drag out of his cigarette and flicks the ashes behind him. "No, no, bitch in pen. Name is Sasha. Very good bitch, make litters of strong baby. Only one though. Very big baby."

And with that, the man leaves the story, never to be seen again, maybe. I sure hope so. And in his place, a pregnant silence. Much like a dog about to give birth to a big puppy, it's a bit awkward and long-winded, but it pays off in the end.

"Well, I wanna say it was a pleasure," I say, trying to move around the pair, "but it really wasn't. C'mon, baby, I want you to win me a stuffie. You can't say you've been to a fair until you win your boo a big-ass stuffie."

I say trying, because as soon as we are halfway around the moai-statue of a man called Haiden Whateverthefuck, one of his cow-hide hands stops us. I swear I can hear the cracking of his non-existent neck as he pivots his head towards us. "Where cats?"

"Uh, girl, I think your man is playing with a 999 Ping," I say.

"Or a damaged GPU," says Hayden. "You know, too much bumping that laptop on the school-bag, if you know what I mean."

(Author's Note: The writer has no idea what the hell those things mean, and although it can be fixed with a quick Google search, the writer has declined to do so, because being wrong makes it even funnier.)

"He's not slow!" yells Leighlay. "He just likes to pick his words carefully. Right, babe?"

"Where puppy?" says Haiden. I swear the man is getting dumber by the chapter. But so are the readers. Get dunked on!

"Yeah, your man is running on Windows 7," I say. "Babe?"

It was Hayden's turn to lead us away. But just as I was stopped by the swamp monster on a varsity jacket, he was stopped, but by the words of the melted Barbie doll next to him.

"What-evurr!" she says, misspelling and all. "My man doesn't need to be bright. All he needs is to be the best football player around and get into the NFL so that I can be a stay-at-home wife with rock-hard abs, sipping margaritas and then get a reality show when I get to make my own winery. And he is. Way better than that loser, talentless, limp-dick excuse of a man you call a boyfriend!"

"Hey!" says Hayden, "Ayden doesn't have a limp dick. My man is rock-hard, like diamonds. Like a baby's arm holding an apple made of diamonds. Big and hard."

"Babe, I think she's talking about you," I say.

Leighlay's smirk should've been a dead giveaway, but bless my man's heart. "Ah, whatever, then. I was expelled from the team. I don't even play anymore, so, talent or not, I don't care. If you would excuse us."

We are ¾ of the way around Haiden when Leighlay pipes up again, and I can almost feel the smirk coming from her. Like a wave of piss in a kiddy pool. "Oh, I'm not talking about football. I'm talking about your cooking, Mr. Burnt Praline."