Restless Legs and Foot in Mouth
by Katie Moore
There are three ways I can win this fight, none of them are pleasant and two of them are painful. Since jumping off this bridge and floating south down the Mississippi is out, I’m left with a sprint through rush hour traffic, or self defense.
Self defense is uncomfortable for me, almost as uncomfortable as being pummeled by my ex-wife’s new girlfriend.
The bitch is Armenian, so I can’t tell you what shit she’s saying to me while she’s swinging, but I have a general idea why she might be angry.
I was fucking her, my ex-wife’s new girlfriend, from behind while the season finale of Wife Swap broke for commercials. That show makes me so hot, considering the circumstances. I was, of course, taking good care of business.
Then there was this commercial about Restless Leg Syndrome. You know, that condition where your legs want to be busy all the time. I did laugh about it, I might even be guilty of claiming to have restless cock syndrome. That’s when things went from orgasm to “Oh, Shit!”
How the fuck was I supposed to know her mom had that restless leg thing? You’d think a girl would mention that her mother set her own legs on fire to get rid of the irritating urge to move. Did she survive? No. Apparently all this happened before that revolutionary medicine I was laughing at. Her mom would still be alive today if that medicine had come along a little sooner.
Armenian girls are scary when they get pissed, and sometimes when I get a little nervous I just laugh. I can’t stop. Chicks hate that.
It wouldn’t have been such a problem if she wasn’t a kickboxing champion. I guess it would have been OK if I wasn’t a pacifist. But I’m a fucking Zen Buddhist. I gotta protect my karma. I do not hit bitches.
When she started her attack I ran to the Super’s apartment, watched till I saw her leave, and then went home to jack off to Wife Swap on DVR.
But now, bitch sees me jogging across the bridge. She pulls her car over, hurtles out, starts to screech and stomp my peace-loving ass in front of the entire commuting population. They all slow down. It’s like fucking Jerry Springer on wheels.
I can’t jump. I don’t hit bitches. My legs are like lead and I’m wishing for an urge to move, even an irritating one. I don’t pass out when she kicks me in the head, things just get very clear.
I should not fuck my ex-wife’s new girlfriend. I should not comment on commercials while fucking. I should not actually speak in the presence of females for I am an idiot.
I’m going to have to move away, but first I have to move. I take my chances with the rubberneckers and run.