The Homegirl's Response
(A Response to Joe Gaspard's "Biog" Story, by Steve Bachman)
I'm the "homegirl" in Joe Gaspard's "Biog" story of his "sucky night." He insulted my hunky new boyfriend, calling him a "yutz" and "a neatnik in a stetson." Well, at least he's a real man, a gearhead who was able to fix my tranny. Not like Joe, who's, like, some sort of a tofutti phreak. I met Joe online one night in a "wiccans, gnostics, and catholics" chatroom and he described himself as some sort of boho gansta and a brainiac with interests in qabalism, tantrism and papism (later I found out he's a flunkie midlifer who's a realtor with interests in cocainism, narcotism, and nasalisms). He was always real schmoozy, like, "What are you wearing, chica?" and I'm like "Oh, levis and a camo henley, why?" He'd say like, "I'd love to see you in a tankless tankini" or "I love a blue jeaned latina venus" and I would be all like "Whatever!" But he'd be like all jiggy and the next thing I know he's asking me to cyber. And I'm like "Cybersex? You think I'm some sorta vampy sleazoid? Some skanky hoochie barista with a buzzcut?" Whatever. But he kept spamming me like he thinks I'm his keypal or something. Long boring emails with like, unbelievable stories about how he's, like, a champion kickboxer, an enophile, he invented velcro and ziplock bags, has a pet bummalo, races a jetfoil, and his gramma was like a selkie or something. One time he wrote that he was all, like, geeked up about winning a lambada competition and placing third in the longjump. Whatever. But he's, like, a musick moghul, a real jazzbo and a grunger with a bitchen collection of some of the heppest doowop and soca out there. So I agreed to meet him at a local brewpub that was promoing a really swoony new postpunk synthpop band. So he shows up with like a mohawk and he's like all schlumpy and he's like wearing hightops and a boatneck shirt. He's got like a hoselike nose and a sneery, foureyed expression. His complexion is, like, a bad combination of poxy and fluish. Now I'm not, like, a lookist or anything, but this guy was a real schlub. Still, after a few brewskis, some schnapps, a bottle of pernod, and smoking a doobie, I agreed to go back to his place. I think he must've, like, slipped me a roofie because I wasn't really thinking straight. Anyway, back at his place he said "Do you want to hit the jacuzzi?" I was like "I don't have a swimsuit." But he like, offered to get me one and left the room. Soon he came back wearing a wetsuit, and like, an aqualung! He offered me a pair of skorts and a unisize tee-shirt. I told him that I really shouldn't go in the water because "I've got a grody fusarium the size of a muskox on my back." I thought, like, that should slow things down pretty fast. But he said, like, "I'll go slip into something more comfortable and you can help yourself to some cerveza and some gorditas." I had a little bit of colby cheese on a biscotto cracker and looked through his minibar for something to drink while thinking of making my getaway, when he comes back in the room wearing bobbysox and the fabbest babydoll pyjama! I'm like, "eek!" But it was really was a big turnon. So I peeled off my kanzu to reveal the lycra catsuit I'd worn underneath. "Do you want to, like, hongi or something?" I said. He said "Smush noses?" So we did. One thing led to another and soon we were on the loveseat playing kneesies. He was down to, like, a pantalet. Then things got weird ... He yelped, like, "We're getting down some bingoes tonight!" and then pulled, like, a chess clock off of a coffee table and hit a button. "Twenty-five minutes a side," he said, "you can only touch me when your time is running." "This is, like, weirding me out" I said. "Show an empty palm before reaching into my 'pocket'," he said with a leer, "and either of us has the right to challenge any move by the other. We'll use this," as he thumped a blue-and-red copy of the official something-or-other dictionary, "second edition!" Now I was ready to bugout for sure. "Arriba!" he yelled. I'm thinking, this guy's, like, morphing into some sort of bonobo. He's still screaming, "Sevens and eights: Shazam! Attagirl! Criminy!" That's when I got out of there as fast as I could, changed my email address, shutdown my webpage, changed my cell phone number (I'm with Cingular), bought a new lockset for my door, and started seeing, like, a real man. Who happens to wear a stetson. Whatever.