The Gentle Maid

Tuesday mornings suck. No hangover left to remind me what fun I had last weekend, but 4 days away from another binge. What makes it worse is my arm fell asleep hanging over the bed and my dog has obviously been humping it recently. I sniff the wet spot to see if his goop smells better than mine. Yep. Getting up before noon is stupid, but Olga the cleaning lady gets here on time every week, and if I’m not up she’ll make the fucking bed with me in it. So I roll out, grab my least sticky copy of Swank and cop a squat for my morning dump. I manage to rub a decent squirt one out between logs, but as I turn to flush I realize that I’ve plopped myself on the edge of the tub by mistake. Ah, fuck it, Olga gets paid to clean, not me. The roll is empty again, but there’s my roommates washcloth to use and I toss it into the tub when I’m done. My roommate gets a suspicious look as he sniffs the wafting stench so I boot the dog across the kitchen and scream, “Don’t ever do that again!” Then I wink at the mutt for giving my arm a good scrubbin’. When Pat looks up from reading the Greenwich Village Gazzette and notices that I’d failed to tuck my package back into my shorts she hurls every bit of his whole grain granola & soy breakfast onto her lap. I can’t hold back my chortling watching little bits of raisin and oatmeal dripping from his nose. He calls me a “bitch” and I tell her that vomiting transgendered people are my kind of folk. Then I write a check to Lyndon LaRouche in his name.

Pat dry heaves when she gets to the bathroom and is hit with the full extent of my earlier defilement.