12 February 2011
New Phone, Old World
I have never been one to own, and have to own, the latest gadgets. For me the greatest invention has always been the turntable. Everything else is just a means for the Chinese to steal away what money I have left after buying beer.
It was Sonja who bought me the new phone. She had bought me the laptop that crapped out too. Sonja likes her man to be a modern man. Too bad. I have never been modern. I prefer the tried and true to the shiny new.
Having the new phone means I can and do write anywhere I happen to be except driving my car. You have to be one modern motherfucker to write and drive at the same time. No more forgotten ideas because I have no pen and paper handy.
The fucking foreman snuck up on me writing a couple days ago. I quickly clicked to Pussy Le Queer, my favourite lesbian photo place, and handed it over to him to look. You do not need people around the sawmill thinking you are writing all the time. Being a thinker does not do in the sawmill world. He was impressed. "Don't let my boss see you on that thing. He'd like to confiscate every last one of those things. You know what he said last meeting? Said, 'God damn Chinese keep inventing new ways for the workers to fuck the fucking dog. Anybody have any ideas on what to do about it?' Course no one did and I did not think it constructive to suggest we bomb the fuck out of the
cocksuckers like we ought've back in the fifties."
Yesterday I was writing on the phone, enjoying my coffee, enjoying not being at work yet, waiting for my old world breakfast, when Ma snuck up on me. "What you write on that thing?" she asked. "I didn't know you write. You ever write about me?" she asked coyly as she pressed her breasts towards me.
"Mostly I do write about my Chinese lesbian bang-bang fantasies so I guess I could write you into a story if you like."
Ma wrinkled her nose. "The fuck you will. You write about me fuck white man. Big dick white man. That ok. What every China girl want. Big dickie." She giggled. I fucking near giggled myself. I guess Milton Berle was right. Maybe all women want is a rock hard twelve inches.