So about a year ago I was on a writing course, and it was excellent. In the last few weeks of it we were given a writing exercise that went 'here's three things, write a piece that includes all of them'. Some of them were fun and challenging, but one of them had the following three prompts:
Donald Trump's gold encrusted 757
A lobster
A bad acid trip
What the fuck is that? You want me to write a story using those?
Whatever, I'm not afraid of a challenge, so here's the story I wrote. Let this be a lesson in bathos.
Oh and yeah, language warning and all that. Like seriously, if you've found me offensive so far then do not read on.
Some
lobsters are blue. Most are pink, but some are blue. Of course Donald Fucking
Trump would buy a blue one. I'm sitting at a dinner table across from him and
he's wanking on about Kobe lobster, as if that's a real thing. It sounds like
the rich person version of the gluten-free fad. Slap 'Kobe' on something and
the Donald Trump's of the world, yes all 7 of them, are all over that shit. I
would bet $20 that the truth is that the lobster's name is 'Kobe', but $20 to
Donald Trump is like a jumbo jet to a cockroach; totally fucking irrelevant.
The
menu is about as wanky as the man himself, shit like 'venison Carpaccio' and
'corn-fed chicken'. I don't care about the chicken's childhood, just how it
tastes. I actually don't care about Donald's childhood either, but here he is
going on about it. Fuck off, this isn't your autobiography Donny just some kid
who won a competition. You know that shit on cereal boxes and cans of V where
they say shit like 'buy one and you're entered in the draw to win'? Well fuck
me I didn't know they could enter you automatically and track you down using
your credit card number. Creepy shit...
Backtrack
with me for a second. I buy this coke months ago because I'm thirsty as an
east-end whore. This can has their latest summer promotion emblazoned over the
side, and Donald Trump has just done some ghastly TV ad with him in a Hawaiian
shirt drinking coke with teenagers like he's finally found time for his midlife
crisis. I don't put two and two together ok? And why the fuck does coke do a
competition to win dinner with Donald Trump? I've seen the apprentice, dude's
like the corporate version of Gordon Ramsay.
I get a
phonecall, and I'm a winner winner fucking corn-fed chicken dinner. Donald
picks me up from an agreeable location, which means I had to bus to the richest
part of town so that poor people don't tarnish his car with the gaze of their
unwealthy eyes. He rolls up in, I shit you not, the author shits the reader
not, one would not consider themselves shitted, a stretch Maserati with his
initials made from rows of diamonds on the side. What the ever-loving fuck?
What does his automobile actually fucking gain from that? Do diamonds increase
the fuel efficiency of his car so that he can pay less for gas and have more to
spend on diamonds? Fuck this cunt and his god damn car. Especially fuck the
pictures inside. He looks like a rapper with his framed picture of a plane made
of fucking gold and him beside it with his toupee that's probably made of the
hair of fucking Kobe African orphans.
I don't
know what to order, mainly because I can't pronounce half this shit and the
other half has 'Kobe' written next to it and I couldn't possibly subscribe
myself to such wanky dining. He explains to me that the plane is a Boeing 757,
and he has a huge, throbbing stake in the company with his 9-inch shares and he
can arrive 7 times in a night at any given airport with this plane. The rage
boils inside me and I start doing this thing where I stop breathing and imagine
my fist buried in various objects around me.
The
waitress wonders over because Donald clicked his fingers and I get so angry
tentacles begin to sprout forth from my upper lip. He orders that blue
cunt-fucking lobster and looks at me, ready to judge my mispronunciation of my
choice of main and I look at the waitress and I say 'I'll have the twice-cooked
Donald Trump' and she looks at Donald Trump and he says he'll have the crème
brulee for dessert and I lose it. I've lost it before, but in the past 'it' has
referred to 'most of it'. Today I lose literally all of it, absolutely
everything 'it' could ever be. I look at Donald and say in a voice so neutral
it could calm Hitler 'I don't fucking care'. Leathery wings break through the
skin on my back and spread out behind me, my head grows outward, morphing into
that of a cephalopod, Donald implodes leaving behind a small raincloud and the
smell of mackerel. I raise my head and let out my mighty Cthuloid screech, fist-bumping
the waitress as I stand and moonwalk out of the restaurant. And that, kids, is
how I met your mother.
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