Nobody writes about this town. Except me. With its shit stained river running through it like a big brown dick, it’s barely worth the effort but I’ll try. Homeless pieces of shit stand on every goddamn corner. Some of them try to sell you a magazine and no one is talking about the fact that by selling this magazine they’re only making not being homeless more difficult. Others just lie in the way and there are times when I wish we had our own Richard Kuklinski to fix this problem once and for all. Oh that’s mean. I don’t care.
The main street, I won’t name it, that’ll give too much away. It’s not important anyway. Gangs of ham wallet bull dykes cling to the outsides and insides of diarrhoea level coffee shops shouting at the drug addicted barista who’s out on day release from the local asylum to put more goddamn syrup in their motherfucking coffees. It’s too much for him and he cries out the back and thinks about killing a lesbian just for revenge. He knows he’ll have to talk to his therapist about this after lockup tonight. The bull dykes stomp off to their public service jobs to sexually harass the straight girls in the hopes of scoring some forced cunnilingus on the tax payer dollar.
Oh, that’s mean too. I don’t care.
Women. So many of them in business suits and high heels with their click clack over the concrete footpaths that line the streets. Sometimes they eat shit but you don’t help them up because they’re brave. They’re ugly too. Ugly because they’ve never been fucked properly and some of that’s their fault but who takes responsibility for shit anymore? A man should just get it. Their men certainly don’t, but fuck it. The girls have their careers and the sisterhood is moving up the ranks. It doesn’t take away the fact their faces resemble a well worn leather handbag that’s had lipstick smeared all over it.
The guys are lesbians with dicks. Balding heads clinging to the last remnants of hair in the hope that if they ignore it so will everyone else. They look just like the bull dykes but with beards and the silent tension in the coffee shops between the two groups never kicks off into a full scale brawl because nobody knows how to fight. The bull dykes are eating out their wives in the copy room and the guys forgive them because she was confused. All their wives are confused. Everyone is confused in this town. A bit of cunnilingus never brings any clarity though and the bull dykes are rubbish at it anyhow. That’s the word on the street.
They all have tattoos too.
Nothing beats the subtle embrace of the roaming smell of shit that greets you like an old friend everytime you step outside. You can’t see it, but it’s always there. No one says anything about it though and it’s like when grandma shits herself and you all know that everyone else knows because of how you look at each other. It would be like telling everyone it’s hot in the middle of summer. HEY IT SMELLS LIKE SHIT OUT HERE. They know. It all goes without saying.
No one writes about this town. Except me.