"Yeah, that's right, take 'em off."
A lot of people had asked me to seek professional help, but I was not going to listen to any of them. What did they know? That little scone eating chick down the hall who always had gravy on her blouse looks at me funny and I swear I heard her mutter "wacko" under her breath when I walked past her drinking my coffee, which was too hot anyway and I had to throw it away.
"The pants. Take 'em off."
Why do these dumb chicks come to my company to interview for jobs? Don't they know the ads I put in the paper are fake? I'm just trying to get myself a little action. I read about casting couches in a magazine once, I think it was in Reader's Digest but I don't really remember too well. Most of 1967 - 1979 is a blank lately. I know I saw Jaws seven times in the theater, but I don't remember much else.
"Are you just going to stare at me like I have a blackhead on my forehead?"
This little chicklet had the nerve to come into my office to interview for a fake office administrator position. Like I need an office administrator in an office made up of just me and my ideas. Look around, baby. Yeah, watch me drum my pen on the desk while you go on about how you care about trees and whales and people getting whacked in Kenya because they support democracy. You don't like The Man? Hey, baby, I am The Man. Look at my big belt buckle if you have any doubts about that. I bought it in a hardware store in 1984.
"The pants need to come off. Now."
She was making me raise my voice, sitting there looking all scared and uncertain. She could leave. It's not like I'm a sicko or anything, I leave the door unlocked. I just want to get some action and I have some weird fantasies. Is it wrong that I like the girls to take off their pants and then make them play dress up? I have some clothes in the closet made out of latex and fur I like to dress the good lookin' ones in. What this chick needs is a little mood music. I like to put on something classical like Nitty Gritty Dirt Band's American Dream. Women eat up shit like that like you just wouldn't believe.
Just keep talking, mama, I like that sound.
It goes so easy with that rain falling down.
I think a tropical vacation this year,
Might be the answer to this hillbilly fear.*
Yeah, that seems to make her a little bit more restless. I think I'm going to enjoy this one. Let me rustle on over next to her and give her a better look at my belt. She is trembling now, but I will settle her down. These nature freaks always want to smoke some doobies. I've got doobies in my desk drawer for the rebels and booze for the alkies. This chick thinks The Man is ruining free love and peace and understanding and all that other stuff Elvis Costello used to talk about at the Bay of Pigs concert. I'm on her wavelength, or I can pretend to be, just to get me a little bit of the sweet stuff.
"Try to run, I'll catch you.
I'd rather you be good and get those pants off
and change into the snakeskin thong I bought in Argentina."
She told me I was scaring her and covered her face with her hands. That was a sign she was ready for some loving. I reached down to grab the waistband of her pants and then something hit me in the back of the head. I stood up, charmed by this turn of events and smiled. My morning interview, who I had forgotten about after locking her in the drawer of a file cabinet, was up and at 'em. She was wielding a cricket bat and a bad temper. Obviously she did not like the fact that I had neglected her so long after our lovely session earlier in the day.
"If we kill you, will anyone miss you?"
My goodness, this one was rather feisty indeed. What a festival I could have if I tied both of these lovelies to chairs and got some of my toys out of the drawer. They would like Mr. Biggs the "glow in the dark violator." He would be just the thing to tame these shrews.
Just think Jamaica in the moonlight.
Sandy beaches, drinking rum every night.
We got no money, mama, but we can go;
We'll split the difference, go to Coconut Grove.*
"Don't be jealous, baby.
There is enough of me for everyone!"
Later, when I got out of the hospital and stood trial for what the cops were telling me were "crimes" I started thinking. I had done it all so wrong. These lovely ladies did not understand how much I enjoyed them. They thought me some kind of evil person, like they saw in movies and on television. They had been programmed to believe that they deserved love and tenderness and everyone was supposed to have thoughtful consideration of everyone's feelings. They were being fed a crock of shit and could not understand where I was coming from when I tied them up and poured six of seven melted sticks of butter on them before filling them up with my brand of love. I would have been better off putting them out of their misery when I was done loving them. I would think about it again when my fellow inmates were beating me soundly every night and leaving me bloody and broken on the floor of my cell. The guards would not do anything, they just laughed and told me I "had it coming." I guess they watched too many crime dramas and prison movies.
"Pants are a tool of The Man.
Take 'em off."
*Lyrics copyright The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, or something.
The title of this page is apparently from a song by Rodney Crowell
Called "Voila, An American Dream"
Something I was not aware of during the original writing of this mess.