Daydream Believer
Latigo Flint is very, very glad that spiders can't fly. If there is a hell, you can bet that in it, all the pretty butterflies, benign moths and gnats and such, crouch flightless in dark corners and overhangs, while all the horrible, hairy, poison-burbling spiders flit, flutter and swoop, smacking into face and hair every minute of every wretched day.
It had never even occurred to the cute young woman standing in front of Latigo Flint in the Starbucks line to be thankful for this, but when pressed, she finally mumbled her agreement. When Latigo Flint started listing every poisonous North American spider he could think of, she pretended to answer her cell phone.
This stuck me as rather rude, but a moment later she received her due shame when in the middle of her phony conversation, the phone actually rang. She desperately tried to pretend it was coming from her laptop computer: "Oh hey, um, Julie," she stammered into her ringing phone, "I just got that email you sent me, um, you can probably even hear the AOL notification ringing in the background."
I smiled gently and rested a conciliatory hand on her bare shoulder. "Ma'am, if you don't want to talk to Latigo Flint all you have to do is say so." The phone stopped ringing and she slowly returned it to her purse. "Well, you are wearing guns and a cow skull bolo-tie." I lifted her chin and looked directly into her wide eyes. "Ma'am you have nothing to fear. Why, you could search a lifetime and probably never find a purer gentleman than a Squinty-Eyed Gunslinger. And plus, these are actually my authentic replica Colt Peacemakers, I haven't received the replacement firing pins for my real ones yet." She roughly brushed my hand off her shoulder. "Well in that case, go fuck yourself and leave me alone."
For the split-est of seconds I imagined the foam ceiling tile directly above her splitting down the middle, depositing a writhing, hissing clump of about a thousand tarantulas directly onto her ponytailed head. But then my even-keeled Squinty-Eyed Gunslinger temperament returned and banished such vengeful thoughts.
(And for the rest of our six-minute wait in line, I cheerily hummed Daydream Believer by The Monkees to let her know she hadn't hurt my feelings in the slightest.)
posted by Latigo Flint @ 8:24 PM
10 comments
10 Comments:
I can't help noticing all the the bitchy C-bombs you encounter at Starbucks. Nary a one appreciates a quick-draw, gun-slinging gentleman like Latigo Flint.
Maybe you should try a Dunkin' Doughnuts, a Denny's, or some other establishment that serves coffee.
Some classy broads in Denny's.
Speaking of tarantulas and ponytails, I used to have a sensitive guy douchebag ponytail. One day I looked in the mirror and reflexively punched it because of what I saw. I got seven sitiches for the laceration. I realized I was extremely punchable, so I cut my hair short.
Before that, though, I had a big tarantula that I'd let crawl all over me. My mother and siblings refused to help the few times it got tangled in my ponytail. I had to go door to door to neighbors' houses begging for help.
Many doors were slammed.
There was one strange fellow named Ed who always had grocery bags full of books he ought at garage sales. He'd be walking down my street and I'd wave him down and he'd laugh good naturedly. He got accustomed to carefully unweaving the fidgety eight-legger and gently depositing it back in my palm.
He was the only one who would help.
Alas, Latigo. Some women do not recognize true sincerity and insightful conversation - even when confronted with it in the line at the local starbucks.
"Well in that case, go fuck yourself and leave me alone."
I met my wife that way.
Hell of a time to break your firing pins Flint. I hate it when that happens.
A coupla tarantulas in the purse wouldn't hurt none, maybe teach her to respect unarmed Gunslingers.
One certainly must admire the personal restraint of Latigo Flint. I can only imagine Elton John's "The Bitch Is Back" is what I would have been singing.
And a foam ceiling tile will never fail when you truly need it to.
I have much love and respect for you LBB, but following your logic just then, Clint and Tuco should probably just turn around and forget all about that gold since the war has rendered the bridge impassable!!!
Steve, your mere comments would make most bloggers proud had they posted such. Please, I now wish to know the name of your poison-burbling pet. (If it's Tom Waits, I'm going to turn gay, move to Chicago and try to seduce you. I can't explain it, but I know I could easily spend the rest of my life with anyone who names a tarantula "Tom Waits".)
Yes Ithiel, yes!!! This is exactly right, they don't recognize it. (And apparently I'm not allowed to use duct tape and a nearby van to help them understand.)
I was there Ho, remember?
God, I know Cad, right? Hey by the way, would it embarrass you if I licked a napkin and used it to wipe some of the dirt off your face in public, mommy style?
Mercy yes Old Hoss - and for the split-est of seconds I could see them crawling into a lot more places than just her purse.
Thank you Dave. You are sage and kind. For so long now I've been alone in my admiration for myself... a little company is most welcome.
Mr. Flint, the only trouble with posting vengeful thoughts that you then have to banish is that they're contagious.... now I'm going to be envisioning ceiling-tile-spider-fu raining down on people who irk ME.
But I have to confess, I might dwell on it for more than the splittest of seconds.
I named it Elijah Snow after a character from a Warren Ellis comic book.
Whew. My ass cherry is safe.
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