For a brief few seconds right after I made her acquaintance, I felt sorry for The Thing. She was a slimy, sordid, scabrous mass of anti-femininity, looking to be more of the species of giant lethal reptile - akin to a Gila monster, or perhaps, some ultra-hairy, horrid-looking, primitive primate - than a female, homo-sapient ape.
The Thing moved on me rather slowly and before I knew it, she had me under the knife, with her coyote-hunting dagger perched firmly below my chin, ready to slice my jugular vein.
That hideous vermin kept screaming at the top of her lungs that night: “I’m going to kill, kill, kill you! If not, I’m going to hurt you really, really bad!”
That’s enough of a denouement for now - we’ll get to the near-ending soon in this short narrative.
And not to worry, I’ve sworn off rotund, harrowing-looking, hound-dog ugly women for the rest of my life. If I find some horrid-looking Thing totally repulsive and she comes on to me, I’m going to scream at the top of my lungs: “Be gone you witch! You Satanic daughter! You’re a mirage of Beelzebub in a very homely, morbidly obese woman’s form! Get behind me, you Jezebel!”
See, I met The Thing at an Assholes Extraordinaire Beating, a place where assholes, like The Thing, get together with other pathetic losers, talk about their problems, and commiserate on how they’re all going to get over on the court systems, the cops, and mostly, each other.
I was sitting way in the back of the room, with my Cherry Coke in front of me and some stale decaffeinated coffee that I poured from a moldy mug that was in the center of the room. The mug was on a table with a stuffed raccoon. It was a handsome relic of a once proud animal, with those cute rings around its eyes - and that black, white and gray tail seemed to shine like a truly scintillating mammal of a gem stone!
And there was a camera crew shuffling around Waldo and I think I was even caught in the big camera’s fish-eye lens gawking at the mammal.
I was surprised to find the Assholes Extraordinaire group was a weekly feature on a real-life drama series slugged The Assholes Extraordinaire Assholes, a two-hour prime-time series that ran weekly on the EEEK!!! Channel. The EEEK!!! Channel, by the way, features docudramas of celebrities and no-name people who are working themselves out of the total obscurity phase of life into being famous-for-being-famous divas and dicks.
There was a bronze plaque-like inscription underneath the stuffed raccoon that read: “Waldo the Raccoon was shot and killed by Assholes Extraordinaire Member Bill Green at the Carnegie-Lemonhead International Forest at our annual Assholes Extraordinaire convention in the woods. Waldo was a bloody mess and had to be sutured together by our psych nurse Frieda Fronz. Thanks Bill! Thanks Waldo! And most of all, thanks Frieda!”
So, right before the Assholes Extraordinaire Beating began, The Thing encroached on my being, sat her 700-some-pound fat ass on the fragile chair to the left of mine, smacked her lips and rather coyly asked, “Do you want to eat some coyote jerky?” Then, The Thing threw down onto the coffee and soda-syrup-stained table-top two strips of something that appeared to be beef jerky and informed me if I wanted to live through the Assholes Extraordinaire Beating, I had better do exactly what she told me to do!
Toward the end of “The Beating,” I finally got a gist of what the “Beating” aspect of Assholes Extraordinaire was all about. All fifty-some attendees of the event then verbally attacked one of the poor newbies in the crowded, hot, stuffy room.
And that someone was me!
By the way, this was the most important snippet, weekly, of the televised series. Folks who couldn’t watch the show had this series encapsulated digitally for their TV sets to later play after they were done working, eating out, drinking and dancing, or just hobnobbing with the wannabe assholes in their communities – cavorting and scrounging around strip clubs, sports bars, shopping malls, churches, political rallies, and the like - and the reason they digitally recorded the show was because they wanted to watch the weekly “Beating”.
The first exclamation hit me like a ton of cement. “You’re a fucking asshole!” came a cry from across the room. I looked over and could not believe my eyes. Some beady-eyed redneck with a red, lookalike hat to “Let’s Make America Great Again” was pointing a crooked finger in my direction and staring me down like he had me in the sights of an AR-15 assault rifle. His hat read: I SMACK BEAVERS AROUND AND THEN I EAT THEM! I LIKE THAT TIME OF THE MONTH WHEN THEY BLEED LIKE GUTTED DEERS & CATFISH!
Then another voice shouted from somewhere else in the room, but by this time I was far too hysterical and disturbed to tell where it came from. Anyhow, that primal scream enunciated, “You’re a fucking asshole! How dare you invade our Beating for your self-ingratiating, masturbatory delights! What are you doing here, gawking at our women with those roaming eyes! Go away, asshole, out in the cold you go and take those coyote jerky strips with you, along with the Man Eater, that Thing that’s sitting next to you!"
By this time, I had four of The Assholes Extraordinaire Assholes cameras zooming in on me. The guy who headed-up this crew had one of those monstrous old dinosaurs pointed directly in my face! Yes, the lead cameraman had me in his sights and he was making me a national trainwreck on live TV!
Just then, another voice screamed at the top of his lungs: “Be gone, treacherous hyena! You’re in enemy territory now and we’re going to beat the shit out of you if you don’t go out into the snow and slush now and walk somewhere fast in your bare feet. Do you know why? Because before we throw you out into the snow, we’re going to strip those Army boots right off your stupid feet! Then, all of us are going to laugh like hell at you after your feet turn purple and you catch frostbite on your silly-looking, broad, swelled extremities!”
It was then that The Thing grabbed my hand, whisked me out of the door, and snapped, “Me and you, we’ve got to get out of here and get this bromance we have incubating well under way. It’s time for you to stick your penis into my vagina, which, by the way, has an accoutrement attached to it that spans a country mile!”
Anyhow, when I got out of the door, I ran like hell from The Thing and the Assholes Extraordinaire creeps. Somehow, The Thing got my telephone number.
See, being that Assholes Extraordinaire was supposed to be a “support group,” I thought I’d get a little support there, so I wrote my landline telephone number down on about 25 little scraps of paper that I had stuffed in my leather coat to hand out to the members of the group. But I was wrong. When they called that event an “Assholes Extraordinaire Beating” they named it right, especially the “Beating” part of that hideous name. I erroneously believed, at first, that Assholes Extraordinaire would be conducted much like an Alcoholics Anonymous, Overeaters Anonymous, or a Narcotics Anonymous group. These types of nurturing, caring meetings would never react in such a way to a newcomer, especially with the threat of violence that the Assholes Extraordinaire primates had shown to me!
So, as soon as I got back to my apartment, the phone was ringing. I answered it in desperation, thinking it might be the people from 9-1-1 who had smartly prognosticated that I had an emergency. But to my dismay, a gruff, husky voice greeted me with, “Hello. It’s The Thing. I saw you from the corner. I know where you live. The second floor of Ivory Towers Estates … I’ll be right up.”
And within a minute, The Thing was breaking down my door with a pick axe and she was yelling: “You joined a cult today. Do you know what a cult is? It’s a lot like the mafia or the United States Congress – it’s something you just can’t get out of - so now open this door so I can jump your skinny, anorexic bones!”
Within a few seconds, she had a big, mirror-horned axe perched over my head and she was screaming, “How dare you try to escape from Assholes Extraordinaire! We own you now! You’re nothing less than our property!”
She grabbed my two legs and started twisting and turning them. Then The Thing jumped on my stomach and sort of body slammed me against my sofa, like she wanted to break my back. She had her coyote-hunting dagger pointed right below my chin, where the jugular meets the side of the throat. It was then that I caught a glimpse of the cameraman from the EEEK!!! Channel. He had that cumbersome camera pointed right at my nose!
When I was at the threshold of either death or hell, some neighbor of mine, Jacko, grabbed The Thing and with a quick judo move, threw that Megalodon Mama to the floor with a crashing THUD. The Thing, not knowing what do next, simply ran out the door yelling in a bass voice like a ruptured moose mama who had her tit bitten off by a hungry and over-zealous calf. The cameraman also flew out the door, but only after he caught a frame or two of Jacko and I giving each other “high fives” after The Thing’s quick departure.
So, I asked Jacko, who had more girlfriends in his time on earth than both Hugh Hefner and Donald Trump combined, about the nature of The Thing and what made her “tick”. “My son,” Jacko told me, “Things are all around. To most of us of the masculine variety, Things are like invisible beings since we never notice them since they’re so huge and ugly. Remember, not all homely, fat women are Things. Some make delightful pets, whether they be just platonic walkabouts or real-deal girlfriends. I had three women in my life who I’ve considered marrying. One of them was a Thing lookalike, but actually, she was one of the nicest, most nurturing human beings I’ve ever known. Truthfully, I’m happy I never married. Most women would have never put up with my malarkey and would have forced me to change in a positive way. Me, on the other hand, well, I like the total jackoff I’ve become and really, always have been…”
“Yes, sometimes, my son, Things invade like phantom hitchhikers. When they get you, you’ll never get out of their clutches. Some claim you’ll never be seen again. The same thing with your Thing. Wear your crucifix and keep repeating your Our Fathers and Hail Marys if you ever come upon The Thing again. Hopefully, she’ll get in trouble with those Assholes Extraordinaire losers and she’ll be crated up in a big box meant to ship elephant seals to Antarctica …. Then, hopefully, you’ll never see her again. Maybe, just maybe, The Thing will wind up in Antarctica, Siberia, or Las Vegas to live out her days of sadistic torture of men and coyotes.”