Dear Jonny, Has A Woman Ever Tried To Kill You?
Have you ever had a woman try to kill you?
Yes, I most certainly have. One instance in particular immediately springs to mind. This was some years back, following a lengthy, especially violent bouncing shift at a local hellhole. I recall peering down through mace-seared eyes (someone had sprayed me several hours earlier, during a club-wide brawl) at my swollen, blue-black knuckles and shredded, blood-splattered pants. “Fuck,” I thought, “I really need some waffles.” As this was the general consensus among my bouncing brethren, we downed a few dozen shots in quick succession, then raced up the street, toward Denny’s. After securing a corner table sufficiently distanced from every sort of dumbass imaginable, we placed our orders and then sat back to relax, look around, and share snide remarks about our surroundings. During this time we were approached by two bouncer groupies, both of whom I recognized as burnt-out strippers. In no mood to interact with horny std’s posing as dance floor leftovers, I shot them dirty looks that, apparently, weren’t dirty enough. They squeezed into our booth and began yapping incessantly, clearly operating on empty skulls and mounds of cocaine. This annoyed me greatly. A moment passed. Just as I was about to introduce them to a little Sigmund Freud (“In my experience, ladies, women like you do what you do because it’s the only way by which drug ‘n booze-addled molestation victims with non-existent self-esteem, bodies that look good only in dimly lit rooms, and numerous deep-seated mental disorders, can make a decent living without wiping puke off table tops like the waitresses you see here.”), one of them began to spew forth a quasi-amusing tale of personal woe. She explained that several years prior she’d returned home unexpectedly, only to find her husband of a few years having wild sex, in the kitchen, with another man. I chuckled. She shot me a halfway murderous look. I chuckled again. “What’s so funny, asshole!?,” she said. “Well,” I replied, let me ask you something.” (At this point I took a few seconds to search her dilated pupils for exactly what I needed) “I want to know what it was like when you suddenly understood that crazy kitchen sex with another man meant more to your husband in that moment than you ever meant to him as his wife….Tell me, you stripper, how did it FEEL?” With that she snatched up the nearest knife and, without hesitation, dove across the table, aiming directly for my jugular. Obviously she didn’t get there, but had she not been quickly restrained, I have no doubt it would’ve become a mortal struggle. Instead she wriggled around atop the butter and syrup, frothing at the mouth while her eyes turned completely black, like a coked-up Denny’s shark in the throes of terminal psychosis. The waffles were tasty.