Love And Shit

by Michael Frissore

Tim had been walking around the city for an hour. He took his cell phone from his pocket to call Cedric. There was no answer, but Cedric never answered his phone. He put his cell back in his pocket and continued walking. When he arrived at Cedric and Wade’s place he didn’t knock. He went right in as usual. His friends were sitting on the couch.

“Hey, Timmy,” Cedric said. “Have a seat, little fella. Want a beer?”

“No, thanks,” Tim said.

“Awww,” Wade said, noticing Tim's depressed look. “Why so glum, chum?”

“It’s this girl at work,” Tim said. “I haven’t told you guys about it, but I’m completely in love with her.”

“Aw, sweetie,” Cedric said. “That’s wonderful. Does this young lady have a name?”

“Carrie.”

“What a lovely moniker,” Wade said. “Does she feel the same way about you, pumpkin?”

“Of course not,” Tim said.

“What do mean, of course not, you silly goose?” Wade said.

“She doesn’t know I exist.”

“Well, then, you’ll have to change that, won’t you, you gloomy Gus?” Cedric said. “Ask her out. And be witty about it. Invite her out for a coffee.”

“And then stick it in her keyster,” Wade said.

“What?” Tim asked.

“Indeed,” Cedric said, “You should start with the Gaylord Perry. Go at least two knuckles in.”

“Then go for the Roddy Piper,” Wade said. “Slap a sleeper hold on her and keep fucking her until she passes out.”

“Guys, please.”

“Tim, roofies and slow gas leaks are for pussies,” Wade said. “You have to be aggressive. And if you need some chloroform, we got some in the bathroom.”

“See, the great thing about the sleeper, Timmy,” Cedric said, “Is that you can segue into a cobra clutch if you want.”

“I don’t want to wrestler her,” Tim said.

“Or the camel clutch,” Wade said. “If you can slap that on her while you’re giving it to her, you will be my hero.”

“I also usually head butt ‘em,” Cedric said. “Maybe give ‘em a piledriver.”

“Guys,” Tim said. “Do you have any real advice for me?”

“Sure, angel,” Wade said. “Watch out for the Crimson Tide.”

“Ew,” Tim said

“I don’t know, Wade.” Cedric said. “Sometimes I can get into a little crime scene sex.”

“You’re a sick man,” Wade said. “Trust me, Timmy, you don’t want your bedroom looking like the LaBianca house.”

“You wake up in the morning and decide you’d better give Johnny Fontane the part in the movie,” Cedric said.

“Does this girl,” Wade said, “What’s her name?”

“Car-,” Tim started.

“We’ll call her ‘Some Twat’,” Wade continued. “Do you imagine she’s into fun stuff, like, let’s say a blumpkin or a Cleveland steamer?”

“All right,” Tim said. “You guys are not helping.”

“You have to maybe help her out first,” Cedric said. “Maybe toss her salad or something.”

“Good Lord,” Tim said.

“I recommend it with duck sauce or honey mustard,” Cedric said.

“Or A1 Steak Sauce,” Wade said. “I have a bottle of teriyaki barbeque sauce you can take.”

“Hey,” Tim said. “I haven’t even asked her out yet. I can hardly speak to her.”

“I see,” Wade said. “What are you, six?”

“Yeah, get over that,” Cedric said. “She’s just a person.”

“What do I say?” Tim asked.

“Whatever,” Wade said. “Just don’t call her a cunt.”

“Yes,” Cedric said. “Chicks hate that. Take it from me. If she’s a sophisticated girl she won’t appreciate it.”

“You two are ridiculous,” Tim said.

“Seriously, though,” Wade said. “What’s this girl’s name again?”

“It’s Carrie.”

“Lovely name,” Wade said. “Also a lovely song by 80s hair band Europe.”

“Wait,” Cedric said. “Carrie? Like Plug it up! Plug it up! They’re all gonna laugh at you, Carrie? At your job? The one that was at the softball game a couple of weeks ago?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh-oh,” Wade said.

“What?” Tim asked.

“Yeah,” Cedric said. “It’s just a…I sort of hit that.”

“You what?” Tim said.

“After the game a few of us went to a bar and she and I started talking and we came back here and…”

“Jesus, Cedric,” Tim said.

“I didn’t know your sorry ass was pining for that,” Cedric said.

“Will you stop calling her that?” Tim said.

“Look,” Cedric said, “It was a one-time thing. She said I was too big, that I need cock reduction surgery.”

“Nice, dude,” Wade said, high-fiving Cedric. “Hey, if she’s a goer maybe we could all bukkake her.”

“I don’t know why I come here,” Tim said. “I don’t know why I even hang out with you guys.”

With that, Tim went home and cried himself to sleep.

Michael Frissore's favorite word is "cunt." He could say it all day and address everyone he knows only by "Cunt." He has a book of poetry he wanted to call Cunt, but like a cunt he called it Poetry is Dead (Coatlism, 2009). See how he gave the publisher credit just like a cunt would? God, what a cunt.