By: Ronnie
I dated this dame once. Yeah, she was a dame. I don't know how else to describe her. She liked to wiggle her ass when she walked. Always made it a point to walk a few steps ahead of you just so she'd know you were looking. I indulged. That's about all she was good for. She had the looks but that's it. She had a condition. Something about the frontal lobe of some cortex below the cerebellum of the medulla whatcha-ma-call-it froze up or overreacted or chemically diffused. Something like that. Real scientific stuff. It was sad. Poor dame would shake it until the sun went down, sip a coca-cola, and proceed to carry on the most unintelligent, uninteresting conversation conceived by man.
Mary, that was her name. Or maybe it was Katherine. It doesn't really matter. We'd go to the movies or sit on the couch at her house and watch television. That's all she would talk about, too. "Oh my god! I loved Joe Blow in that movie!" she'd say. "Did you watch the episode of Who Gives a Rat's Ass last night?" she'd continue. And on and on it would go. Real brutal shit if you asked me. The only thing worse than watching TV on her couch and listening to her babble was listening to her drunk dad talk about his high school football days. That shit really bothers me.
When I could endure no more I would make some excuse about it getting late or walking the dog or one of the other infinite number of lies I used to get out the front door. I don't know why I did it, date her. I guess it was the way she wiggled her ass or how she let me rub her leg while we watched TV, even when she had on a skirt. She really was a good looking dame. Way too good looking for the likes of me. She was just so unbearable. The condition and all, I suppose. She never actually mentioned it to me. I'm sure she had one, though. I'd be almost positive. It really doesn't matter anyway, does it?
