When has a crotch point ever
not resulted in a fairly aggressive lawsuit,
Good would wisely point out. Seriously. This is what it's like in my head. All the time. "Alright, Mr. O'Brien, if you're sure that you have all of this, I'll keep going." I nodded, so as to say
, and I refrained from repeatedly jabbing my fingers towards my groin, so as to say I'm not going to court over this again.
It was interesting to watch Fiona speak, and I politely informed her as such.
She was very animated when she spoke, and it was clear from the hint of a smile and the twinkle in her eye that she was very passionate about the topic of labor laws and unions. I almost felt sorry for the poor girl, because those were some of the most boring f*****g things I've ever heard about. Still, it was wonderful to watch her speak, flailing her arms around, pausing only to sip at her coffee. It was so wonderful, in fact, that I didn't even pay attention to a word she'd actually said.
in fact, that I found myself staring still, even after she'd already left.
So, my sexy, expert subject had left and I'd completely ignored every sexy little word that came out of that filthy mouth of hers. In the world of journalism, when presented with a situation like this, it is said that you've been handed "A Strawberry c**k Sundae with s**t Sauce." In terms everyone can understand, I was totally screwed. Or was I?
The clock was ticking, nearing towards deadline. I had no story, no subject, and absolutely no interest in doing any further research. But what I did
have was a wild imagination and an uncanny ability to create a touching and heartwarming piece of journalism
so f*****g moving
you just might cry, if you weren't too busy rubbing your genitals on the paper in a futile attempt to have sex with the story.
I started writing. Furiously, not bothering to correct typos or wipe the page when I started drooling on it. I thought about what labor meant to me. How, before my career as a wild and passionate blogger, I had a slightly less glamorous job working as a dishwasher. I thought about how, on busy nights, an impossible number of plates would stack up and up and even the slightest deviation --like taking one sip of water-- would set me back immensely. At first, it seemed like no matter how many I washed, I'd never get through them all. But I took them. One dish at a time. I thought about how the quiet tranquility brought on by both the repetitive, circular hand-washing motion and the monotonous whir of the giant, mechanical dishwasher drowned out the rest of the world and made the work almost soothing, almost peaceful. I thought about the