The Pisser

Twas this past Saturday (June 18, 2011) and I was doing my p.m. shift, however, the light was brightly shining and the air was warm. As I was working with “dead boy,” I figured I would take my book “Being In Time” by Martin Heidegger outside and enjoy the sun. One of my favorite things to do besides reading is to wear offense t-shirts. Being that I am in Quebec, the shirt that I had on this day became more offensive to the pisser for reasons you will note. The shirt read “Welcome to America Now Speak English.”

Anyway, with my glasses on in a relaxed state, I notice a car pull to the side and a guy getting out. I see him head to a tree where he pulls out his weasel and takes a piss. As I found this offensive, I started yelling at him.

The guy who was shirtless and sporting shorts, looked like he was a steroid addict as his muscles were huge. Those huge muscles were beautifully adorned with a thick tribal tatt. When he was done draining his weasel, he approached me yelling in French. As I don’t understand French, I was yelling back “I don’t speak French!” By the time he got to me, I asked him “would you like me to go piss on your lawn?” He was all up in my face and all of a sudden he could speak English. Amazing! The car he had come out of was now in front of me with another guy in the back seat and a woman at the wheel.

Imagine him telling me to “shut up” and “sit down and read your book” to which I replied “no.” Who the fuck was he except some pig who can't ask to use the bathroom. He kept on insisting that I “shut the fuck up and sit down,” but I couldn’t. He was so mad he raised his fist and said “I’ll punch your face.” At this point I take my glasses off and stare him right in the eye and say “do it.” That fist stood in mid air wavering as I eyed him never taking my eyes off of his. When his arm finally dropped and he got in the car, he was making jerk off movements with his hand and movements as if he were playing with a pussy. For every gesture that he made of a sexual nature I responded loudly “YOUR MOTHER” bringing all the brilliance of my New York accent to his ears.

Eventually, they pulled away and I went inside. Having asked "dead boy" “did you hear or see what happened?” He replied “no.” Now you know why I call him "dead boy." His name does not even deserve capitalization.

Not for anything, if the hulk would have hit me, I would have had carte blanche to go to town on him with a good can of whoop ass providing he did not knock me out with the first punch.