|FatMike, (Wiki.) That is one ugly broad.|
Constance 'Dusty' Miller
I was having tea with our editor here at Long Cool One Books, he’s some guy called Mike.
He said he had a headache, and he had just taken his last two aspirin. Some kind of beer-clot, a beer-embolism in the brain is what he said. It’s either in the pre-frontal cortex, or possibly right down in the brain-stem, the primitive fore-brain of song and lore.
Reaching into my purse, I offered him a Midol.
“Oh, no.” He said he was afraid it would give him gynecomastia.
Mike knows a lot of big words, that’s why he’s editor.
“I don’t want to start growing breasts, although I would probably appreciate them, ah, probably as much or more than the average bear. Hell, knowing me, I’d probably never leave the house.”
I started laughing because we’re never entirely sure with Mike, whether he’s serious or just pulling our legs.
“No—seriously. The last thing I need is for my hips to start spreading. Next thing you know, I’d be developing a bit of a camel-toe and then I’d have to start buying real tight slacks so I could sort of show off that big old thigh-gap and that nasty old camel-toe.”
Then there’s the whole male pattern baldness thing.
“Honestly, I’d be the ugliest woman you ever saw, Dusty. It’s okay for you, right—you’re pretty.”
He crossed his arms and sat back. There’s just no way he’s going to take that pill, which is really more of a symbol than anything.
“Oh, come on—you can’t be serious.”
“No, I am. Look. If life gives you lemons, you make lemonade, right?”
“Ah…sure.” Not too sure where this one’s going.
“Yeah, I got to be honest with you. If I ever started turning into a woman, the first thing I would do is get right on the phone to the Glamourous World of Ladies Wrestling. I’d be chucking them little ladies right out of the ring in no time at all, left, right and centre—”
Mike’s about six-foot-five and I reckon he probably would be tossing them around like Cabbage Patch Kids and dead little fur-babies. He would knock the stuffing out of them. It would take quite a few whacks across the back of the head with one of those ubiquitous folding chairs to take a big guy like that down…
“Yeah, I’d endeavour to be the best gynecomastia-guy that ever lived. And they’d be pissed off too, and who can blame them. But basically, if I can avoid it, that’s probably better as it’s not really what I want.” Apparently all them female hormones, coupled with the loss of testosterone as he ages, sort of compounds the danger.
“Ah. Oh. Okay.”
“So, really, I’d be foolish to take that kind of a risk.” All those precious bodily fluids or something…not quite being what they should be.
It seems he was serious after all.
Anyways, sometimes you’re better off to live with that headache.
With a brain like that no wonder it hurts sometimes…
< ring…ring…ring… >
“Hey, Dude! What’s up?”
Mike’s on the phone. Apparently some guy named Caitlyn.
They talk sometimes, God knows what about. This is the psychological moment and I must make my exit.
(I can't believe you did that, Dusty. Oh, well. It's your blog, but... - ed.)
(Oh, come on. It's a good story. - Dusty.)
(Do me a favour--next time call me Earl or something, okay? - ed.)