Every fishman must have his day, and today is yours, for
today you’ll rise from the sea and walk in to town, in search of casual sex.
“Oh hello lady,” you’ll murmur at a woman from down the
bar. She’ll vomit on to the floor and
begin weeping at your odor. You’ll
shrug.
“Bitches,” you’ll tell the bartender, who will also be
retching from your hideous stench.
You’ll move on to the next bar, but at each one you’ll
encounter the same scenario: you find a fly honey, let her know you’re open for
business, and she’ll vomit all over the place.
Then you’ll leave, dejected and a little drunker than you were when you
came in.
It’ll become a vicious cycle of rejections as the evening
continues: throw down, vomit, move on, throw down, vomit, move on. But you’re not particularly self aware, for a
fish person or for a person in general, really, so you’ll dismiss out of hand
the conceit that you might actually have something to do with the revulsion of
these many varied ladies. You’ll instead
decide that bitches must be universally crazy and that you, catch of a man you
are (get the pun there?!) are not responsible for their reaction to your
lackluster grooming habits.
It won’t be until you reach a bar where an attractive young
woman without her sense of smell is sitting alone and pondering life that you’ll
get an answer you can understand when she tells you, in slurring,
deafness-accented speech:
“It maight bee beecuz yowh ugwe.”
You’ll look at her, then yourself in the bar mirror, then
her again. Then you’ll shrug and
announce to the bar:
“Naw, bitches be crazy.
You wanna go fuck?”
She’ll shake her head and walk to the bathroom in response. You’ll just sit there, puzzled, until the
bartender, holding his nose, stops by to drop off your Tom Collins and lets you
know:
“She’s right. You’re
also a serious douchebag.”
This will make you slump a little on your bar stool. You’ll down your drink in one gulp and traipse
back out to the sea, leaving a trail of slime in your wake.
Congratulations Rank Smelling Fishperson!
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