I'm so freaking lazy...

"Lazy" is a word I use a lot to describe my work habits. I use it because I am just.

But I feel I should post something to appease my throng of fans. So here is a little thing I wrote some years ago. Am I proud of it? I can say only that I wrote it.

Enjoy.

A Man I Met in a Steam Room

“My left eye got blown out by a booby trapped Libyan cigarette. I found the Libyan. Made him eat his arm to his elbow before putting a hammer to his brain again and again. My missing pinky? Kalashnikov, Korean border. Cut off his balls, but he got away with his life. I made the mistake of trusting U.N. Peacekeepers. Never again.

“Oh, I have scars alright. I’ve got a red line from my right pinky toe to my dick. Sudanese cut me with a blade made from melted down Italian WWII bullets. Buried him alive with his family watching. I say my right pinky toe because I lost my left to a baby Great White on vacation in Nassau. It tasted like chicken.

“Bus bomb exploded in Dublin, sending a child’s femur bone into my ear; my left one. Can’t hear shit there, but I still have to pay for the second ear mic for my Ipod. I pled my special case, but the hippy manager at Best Buy didn’t care. Ain’t fucking Christian, you ask me.

“Scars? I strangled a Nicaraguan with his own intestines, but the fucker bit a chunk off my neck. He was a wetback vampire, but he died alright without air to breath. You notice how my hair parts funny? Cuz a Turk tortured my head with lemon juice and straight razors. It’s okay, I got him back with acid and rusty nails.

“You might have noticed my missing left testicle? Amsterdam whore got a little over enthused in her work. Bit when she should have sucked. I let her be, since she only had one leg and all—but I did not tip her.

“Scars? Let me tell you about scars. Got sent back to medieval Spain in a time machine. Fucking priests roasted my ass on the hotseat. Iron chair with a fire lit under. You know what your own ass smells like on the barbecue? I do. Those priest burned up my ass pretty good. Singed my only testicle, too. Here’s my necklace of their teeth. Mostly Incan gold. Sort of my rainy day money.

“My testicle still works, but I hate explaining the scars to the whores. Ruins the magic, you know?