Fabioisonfire
total a-hole
Desperately trying to work on my writing skill so I can be a better screenwriter. You can find them on this fancy-shmancy hip Tumblr account I've set up here, but I am also going to post them here. Tell me what you think, how I can improve, etc. Thanks doods.
Becky Voight and my filthy hands
This bathroom smells weird. I don?t mean to say it smells weird as in Becky doesn?t have good hygiene, it?s a different brand of weird. Like old candles or something. I bet the scent she picked has a name like ?Bahama Breeze?. Why does this wallpaper have ducks on it? Who built this place and decided that the ducks were necessary?
The worst part about taking a piss as a man is that no matter how many times you shake your John, there will always be just one or two, sometimes three, covert drops of urine that make their move a minute or so after you zip up. As a species we?ve sent men to space, but we haven?t evolved to the point where I can take a pee and not have a receipt in my underwear every time?
?Did you wash your hands?? She chirps from the couch.
Did I wash my hands? I?m about to describe something that many men can attest to, but few can articulate. I?ll preface it with this: women are emotional creatures and they act on emotion first and logic second. Men are the opposite. Here comes the logic part.
Becky Voight was my latest trist in a series of short-lived relationships with women determined to destroy themselves and take me down in the midst of the wreckage. She?s tall, taller than I am. She has a handful of freckles that dot her face and run across the bridge of her tiny nose. Her brown hair was back in a bun and she was wearing sweatpants, and, even in this lazy garb, she was still a beautiful specimen. So when I hear Becky Voight ask me if I washed my hands or not, a myriad of possible outcomes race through my brain.
Outcome number one involves a denial. I could deny that I didn?t wash my hands, but what if she knows for a fact that I didn?t? That would be quite an embarrassing predicament. I can?t risk embarrassment. Not on the second date, at least. This is date four or five stuff, at the very least.
Outcome number two involves honesty. I could admit to Becky Voight that I just took a piss and didn?t even come close to touching hot water or soap. She?d either react with disgust, or pleasant surprise that I was honest. Now, honesty isn?t my usual policy on date two, but times like these call for some risks.
?Uh, no, I didn?t.?
?That?s disgusting. Go wash them.?
?But I just?? I tried to defend myself but my efforts were futile. She cut me off faster than an angry New York driver.
?You just touched your penis! That?s why!? Her gesticulations are a clear demonstration on how to clean a pair of hands.
Men think with logic first and emotion second. Here comes the emotion part.
?Becky, do you realize that my hands are probably more filthy than my dick is? Think about it, all day, I?m touching this disgusting city, practically bathing in it. I mean, just today I shook some homeless guy?s hand. There could have been anything on that dude?s palm. I don?t know! But guess what? My dick is safely inside TWO LAYERS of clothing almost all day! It?s safe! No germs in there! Nobody complains when I touch them with my disgusting hands, but if someone comes in contact with my dick, it?s all ?WOAH THERE BUDDY, THAT?S A PENIS!?, and you know what? I??
?Wait are?? she tried to interject but this time it was my turn to have the last word. I was running high on hand/penis washing.
?No. You know what? Men shouldn?t have to wash their hands after they pee. They just shouldn?t. We should uninstall all regular sinks in men?s bathrooms and replace them with dick washing stations. I?m touching my clean penis with my gross hands, it only makes sense, right? I should be washing my dick and not my hands! And just for the record you touched my penis very recently so maybe YOU should be doing the hand washing here! Society has it backwards, don?t you see?! So yeah.?
The only way I can describe the look on Becky Voight?s face was a mixture of ?Please leave now? and halfway to confusion. Her few freckles seemed to snuggle up next to each other and hold each other for comfort as her nose scrunched.
I lost Becky Voight on the second date because I didn?t wash my hands once. **** me.
In this bookstore
In this bookstore I am reminded of my old man. In my head I can see a large hotel dining hall. The tables are white and the room is filled with husbands and wives and brothers and sisters all talking about what?s in store for today. There are a few men cooking in this room. They all wear a tall and white chef?s hat. I meekly ask for an omelet, my voice cracking in embarrassment. The man is cooking my omelet now, and his hands are flying across the portable stove. The man flips my omelet into the air, and slides it onto my plate.
I?m running back to my father to tell him what had just happened now. In my own excitement I trip. My plate shatters, even against the soft and cheap carpeting of this large hotel. My omelet is ruined. No one is talking now. Everyone is looking at me now. I?m crying now. My dad rushes over to me. He takes my hand and we leave without eating any omelets.
We?re going through the exit when a very old and tired man stops us. He?s wearing an old and brown suit, its stitches almost as exhausted as he is. His hands are shaking uncontrollably. He?s kneeling down now, and I?m looking into his fatigued and brown eyes now.
?Everyone has oopsies sometimes.?
The man is standing up now. He?s shaking my father?s hand now. He?s walking away from us, very slowly now. My dad and I are in the car now. I?m looking up at my dad. His eyes are red.
Becky Voight and my filthy hands
This bathroom smells weird. I don?t mean to say it smells weird as in Becky doesn?t have good hygiene, it?s a different brand of weird. Like old candles or something. I bet the scent she picked has a name like ?Bahama Breeze?. Why does this wallpaper have ducks on it? Who built this place and decided that the ducks were necessary?
The worst part about taking a piss as a man is that no matter how many times you shake your John, there will always be just one or two, sometimes three, covert drops of urine that make their move a minute or so after you zip up. As a species we?ve sent men to space, but we haven?t evolved to the point where I can take a pee and not have a receipt in my underwear every time?
?Did you wash your hands?? She chirps from the couch.
Did I wash my hands? I?m about to describe something that many men can attest to, but few can articulate. I?ll preface it with this: women are emotional creatures and they act on emotion first and logic second. Men are the opposite. Here comes the logic part.
Becky Voight was my latest trist in a series of short-lived relationships with women determined to destroy themselves and take me down in the midst of the wreckage. She?s tall, taller than I am. She has a handful of freckles that dot her face and run across the bridge of her tiny nose. Her brown hair was back in a bun and she was wearing sweatpants, and, even in this lazy garb, she was still a beautiful specimen. So when I hear Becky Voight ask me if I washed my hands or not, a myriad of possible outcomes race through my brain.
Outcome number one involves a denial. I could deny that I didn?t wash my hands, but what if she knows for a fact that I didn?t? That would be quite an embarrassing predicament. I can?t risk embarrassment. Not on the second date, at least. This is date four or five stuff, at the very least.
Outcome number two involves honesty. I could admit to Becky Voight that I just took a piss and didn?t even come close to touching hot water or soap. She?d either react with disgust, or pleasant surprise that I was honest. Now, honesty isn?t my usual policy on date two, but times like these call for some risks.
?Uh, no, I didn?t.?
?That?s disgusting. Go wash them.?
?But I just?? I tried to defend myself but my efforts were futile. She cut me off faster than an angry New York driver.
?You just touched your penis! That?s why!? Her gesticulations are a clear demonstration on how to clean a pair of hands.
Men think with logic first and emotion second. Here comes the emotion part.
?Becky, do you realize that my hands are probably more filthy than my dick is? Think about it, all day, I?m touching this disgusting city, practically bathing in it. I mean, just today I shook some homeless guy?s hand. There could have been anything on that dude?s palm. I don?t know! But guess what? My dick is safely inside TWO LAYERS of clothing almost all day! It?s safe! No germs in there! Nobody complains when I touch them with my disgusting hands, but if someone comes in contact with my dick, it?s all ?WOAH THERE BUDDY, THAT?S A PENIS!?, and you know what? I??
?Wait are?? she tried to interject but this time it was my turn to have the last word. I was running high on hand/penis washing.
?No. You know what? Men shouldn?t have to wash their hands after they pee. They just shouldn?t. We should uninstall all regular sinks in men?s bathrooms and replace them with dick washing stations. I?m touching my clean penis with my gross hands, it only makes sense, right? I should be washing my dick and not my hands! And just for the record you touched my penis very recently so maybe YOU should be doing the hand washing here! Society has it backwards, don?t you see?! So yeah.?
The only way I can describe the look on Becky Voight?s face was a mixture of ?Please leave now? and halfway to confusion. Her few freckles seemed to snuggle up next to each other and hold each other for comfort as her nose scrunched.
I lost Becky Voight on the second date because I didn?t wash my hands once. **** me.
In this bookstore
In this bookstore I am reminded of my old man. In my head I can see a large hotel dining hall. The tables are white and the room is filled with husbands and wives and brothers and sisters all talking about what?s in store for today. There are a few men cooking in this room. They all wear a tall and white chef?s hat. I meekly ask for an omelet, my voice cracking in embarrassment. The man is cooking my omelet now, and his hands are flying across the portable stove. The man flips my omelet into the air, and slides it onto my plate.
I?m running back to my father to tell him what had just happened now. In my own excitement I trip. My plate shatters, even against the soft and cheap carpeting of this large hotel. My omelet is ruined. No one is talking now. Everyone is looking at me now. I?m crying now. My dad rushes over to me. He takes my hand and we leave without eating any omelets.
We?re going through the exit when a very old and tired man stops us. He?s wearing an old and brown suit, its stitches almost as exhausted as he is. His hands are shaking uncontrollably. He?s kneeling down now, and I?m looking into his fatigued and brown eyes now.
?Everyone has oopsies sometimes.?
The man is standing up now. He?s shaking my father?s hand now. He?s walking away from us, very slowly now. My dad and I are in the car now. I?m looking up at my dad. His eyes are red.
