Notes from the Upper West Side. A novel by Dan Wrench. Chapter 3. Shit Habits.
My wife's name is Corinne. She was named after an African-American lady, her mother says she, quote, took in, end quote. In reality, the original Corinne, Corinne Sr. was renting the room over Corinne Jr.'s parents' garage.
So when my mother-in-law says she took her in, she's just being a big fat lying racist if you ask me. And if that isn't bad enough, my mother-in-law also smells like socks. Just ask my kids when she visits. Plus, she is the obese person's idea of a lard-ass.
A monstrosity of steaming guts, with little breakfast sausages for arms and legs. She's one of those people you see walking down the subway stairs at Rush Hour taking each step on a ten-count, oblivious to the fact that she is being assassinated in the imaginations of everyone blocked by her gigantic ass from reaching the train. Anyway, Corinne Sr. the Black Lady and Raquel, my mother-in-law, became really tight friends.
They did everything together. If Raquel had looked slightly more human, they may have even licked each other up and down every day. So what I'm saying is, they were tight. Then they had a falling out.
Nowadays, whenever Raquel visits smelling like socks and pissing off commuters, she relives the breakup in the same winding detail ending with, Aunt Angnae N The big ass and rack. I first met her at our wedding, where her infamous husband, my wife's dad, was sitting in the corner with his feet up on a van, rolling an unlit cigar in his mouth and riffing with his pals on the fact toy that Guano means batshit. And she probably calls the retard Daddy while he puts his tongue up her asshole. That happened to me.
Yeah, the whole Daddy tongue asshole thing. But more on that in about a jillion chapters. Shit happens like that. One day you're married to a greasy meatball and you have no hope.
A great day is when you don't cut yourself shaving and you get a big smile from a chick attractive enough for you to think about later when you beat off. Even one day, a day like any other, you find out the greasy meatballs hot friend thinks your cock is a happy meal. And you realize that the world has colors, beaches, and sunshine and you don't need the fat lady after all. It kind of happened to me once, or almost.
I lived on this block where this woman passed me every day on the street like she had no idea who I was. Sometimes she even looked away and grimaced like I was some toed thing. Then one day, on 4th of July, I was walking down the same street and she came out to meet me. She ran.
She actually ran to catch me. And she was all smiles and wavering, drunk to up as my uncle used to say. She just stood there for a second. And then she said, I'm on a fucking fuck you.
And I just know for sure I would have fucked her too. Only she slurred her words so badly that I had to ask her to repeat herself twice before I knew what she was saying. And by then she was annoyed. Notes from the Upper West Side.
Copyright 2013 by Dan Wrench. Notes from the Upper West Side is a work of fiction. The people depicted in this work do not exist.