“I’ll Bite Your Dick Off!”
The
first drug dealer I lived with had a girlfriend and a pack of seven wild pit
bulls. The alpha female would follow me
up the stairs to my room or all the way down to the bottom if I was leaving,
snapping at my crotch the entire way. It
was just her way of asking over and over again if I liked her. The old, “I’ll bite your dick off,”
routine. Sometimes I’d have to crack her
on the skull to get her to stop snapping and drooling on my pants. She eventually seemed to gain an
understanding of the size of my junk because sometimes she would bite my pants
and just barely miss. That’s when I’d
get mad and she’d smile at me with her gigantic head. That’s usually when I’d crack her right on
top of her big stupid dome with my fist.
One
time I came home and my drug dealer roommate was upset and I asked him what was
wrong. He was cooking eggs or something
bland.
“I’m
sick of it,” he said, pointing to the food on the stove.
“Eat
something else,” I said. I was holding a
bag of Mexican food I had ordered to go.
“Do
you think I like this?” he shouted. He
went to the closet and pulled out his hand gun and started waving it around at
me. “Do you think I want to stand in
line for three hours at Food Maxx with the rest of the Mexicans? Do you think I want to eat garbage?”
“No,
I hate Food Maxx,” I said. “Their
produce is terrible.”
“Fuck
you, man!” he shouted. “You fucking
trust fund baby! You fucking liberal!”
He
went out on to the balcony and fired four quick shots into the night sky. He came back in and I had two shots of Evan
Williams ready.
We
knocked a couple back and everything was good.
Weed smoke filled the air and all the pit bulls became relaxed. I was able to get up the stairs without the
alpha female biting my dick off.
I
had survived another day in the underbelly of wine country society.
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