Like I told you about a coupla weeks ago , I bought this balloon for my roomy's sis, who was sick, and then brought it to the office because I didn't want to leave it in the car and then it floated into the tankatarium room and then Lord Architeuthis saw it and then he fuckin' fell in fuckin' LOVE with it! and was totally, like, tryin' to get his mack on and asking me all these goddamn questions about chicks and shit, and so I wrote this rant asking y'all for help and you totally gave me SHIT and I had to totally address the problem, like, on my lonesome. So, earlier this week, the balloon was all droopy and just about on the floor, and Lord A was bugging me at all hours— at all FUCKIN' hours, MAN! Like, in the middle of the night he was calling on the PHONE! Where the FUCK did he get a PHONE! He lives in a goddamn aquarium!— about her wasting away and not talking to him and shit, so I finally got my scheme on, created a diversion (and, like, just as a side note, calling the INS on the low-rent Mexican lab lackeys, and then letting all the food-dogs out of their kennel cages— that creates a goddamn madhouse, man. Gonna miss Homberto and his cousins, though. They were totally stand-up guys... like, I had this one thing going on in Jackson... tight action with some tense Vietnamese assholes, and these guys were visiting folk in Loomis Park... saved my ass a bit in that situation. Damn I'm gonna miss them.) knifed the balloon and pocketed it.
Which all turned out to be sorta fucked— just like I figured, Lord Architeuthis is despondent as fuck, plus we're down Humberto and the vatos and I'm still finding terriers hiding in the duct work and shit— but that's not what I wanna write about. (But, like, a terrier cornered and hot in a heating duct, right? That's a mean fucking dog. All I'm saying, right? A mean mother-fucking dog.)
What I'm on about is this:
Lord A hired this chick, right? Holy fucking fuck, she is so fucking hot, like, you wouldn't believe it. Hotter than pushing terriers into the furnace.
Don't get me wrong, I know that some guys are all like "ass plus titties equals hot," but I'm not in that show. I've got, like, a plane, right? With co-ordinates? Like that grid in geometry class. Along the one axis is the stuff Suveer calls the corporeal— you know, tits and ass and hips and clear skin and green eyes and flat stomach and curly hair and all that— and the other axis, the vertical one, is all the other shit that counts; Suveer calls it the numinous— like, bein' full of fire, and kicking ass in a bar fight, and knowing how to change the oil in a car and shit.
Like, for example, Betty Page, right? Totally fuckin' hot chick. No doubt. A total 10 on the horizontal axis, right? But the thing is, she's got nothin' goin' on upstairs. BP is, like, a zero— maybe a 1— on the vertical. So, if you look at the graph, she's pretty low— like, imagine an imaginary line going from the (0,0) point at the bottom left corner and passing through the point that describes the chick. Now, shade in everything from that line to the closest axis (either the vertical or horizontal, depending on which is closer), and you get a picture of her, of how I dig her. Betty? She's got, like, this tiny little sliver— much better to have a chick who's half as hot, but even just a little cool. Like, a chick half as hot as Betty, but who can also, like, build a birdhouse and cook a mean tamale? Shit, she'd be at, like, (5, 3), and her wedge would be three times bigger. Or, think of the other end: Amelia Earhardt. Is she corpo-really hot? Naw, man; chick looks like that Wil Wheaton fucker that played Wesley Crusher on Star Trek: The Next Generation. But flying solo across the Atlantic? Totally disappearing and never heard from again? That shit is hot. She gets a 10 on the vertical, no questions. But, with that 2 on the horizontal (face it, Wil Wheaton could be a cute chick. We all fucking know it. Not in a gay way, just . . . it's true, is all), shade to the vertical axis, and you see what you got: more than Betty, but not much. Gotta have balance in all things, Grasshopper, right?
The tops, obviously, is to go full-tilt balls-to-the-walls tits-on-Christ and fucking MAX THE FUCKER OUT, 10-by-10. Dig it? If a chick is (10, 10), then the line is 45-degrees— just like you use to get maximum distance with an artillery shell— and her two areas, it don't matter which axis you go to, 'cause both are maxed and, and she's in total balance on the corpo and the numo. Thus she makes sense, even Suveer agrees, and he usually starts shaking his head as soon as I begin to explain about one of my theories.
This new intern, Molly? She is goddamn 10 BY FUCKING 10. Not a bit of shit. She fucking rules.
I dunno how the hell Lord A got her, but she is a fucking prize. First off, she's got all of this mad curly hair, right? Like, big, thick curls, like rotini. And it's long, and this dark chocolaty reddish brown color. If she was a horse, it'd be, like, strawberry roan, sorta, although I don't know if you can say a person is roan. But that's the color. And she's always sorta using two fingers like tongs, to scoop all of the hair together and draw it out of her face. She tries tying to back, with, like, string and stuff, but nothin' seems to hold it. It's made crazy hair. Great fucking hair. And it smells goddamn terrific, like a Peruvian fruit market in the rain. Serious.
She's tall, too— with the swan neck and the straight back and the long legs— shit, that's like a horse too, but in a totally good way. Like Sigourney Weaver— but in a strong role, like in one of the last couple Alien movies. Not like in Ghostbusters. I mean, she's cool and wry and with-it in GB, but Sigourney's a pushover in that film, not strong like Molly is. Molly is hard-fucking-core (not in the porno way— but, shit, man, I wish!.)
She's super distinguished and graceful— totally classy. Like, she listens to all that educated music, like my roomy Suveer's sister Samra does. Accept Molly isn't tied down to some jackass husband or piece-of-shit abuser boyfriend. Shit, I dunno if she's ever been married. Kinda hard to imagine what kinda guy could get with her— probably some totally James Bond dude— and not a goddamn Pierce Brosnan or Timothy Dalton or any of that shit; I'm talking totally class-act Sean Connery. Totally. But not Connery as Bond— he was sort of a slick prick. More like Connery as Indian Jones' dad— maybe a little younger— with the totally distinguished silver hair thing going on. Connery in Hunt for Red October! That's totally the Connery for Molly. Distinguished, ass-kicking Russian dude. Shit, if she was a guy, she'd be that guy. She has, like, 6 college degrees. Last job she had before coming to the lab (on a free fuckin' internship) was as some sort of professor at Woods hole. Total class act.
Also, like, two days ago, on the way out of the lab, Molly had just taken off her lab coat and hung it up— she was wearing these thin black slacks, right? And, like, this button down white shirt, where the sleeves only come to, like, just below the elbows. So, anyway, she's hanging up her lab coat and she drops her car keys, and when she bends over to pick em up her shirt rides up a little, and she's wearing a thong! Damn! That's so goddamn hot!
Really, she gives me so much goddamn wood, you wouldn't even believe it.
Suveer's all like "Rob, she's a little out of your league." Shit, even the Three Wise Crabs just couldn't let the age thing go— I mean, crap, where there's a will there's a way, right? 17 years is practically nothing.
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Copyright (c) 2000, 2004, David Erik Nelson, Fritz Swanson, Morgan Johnson