I found myself in the office men’s room today, one urinal down from a supervisor. He started to chat me up, which was predictably awkward. It occurred to me that I’d once read a suggested remedy for just that situation: straight-razor slash to the cheek.
I reached for my boot, only to realize I didn’t have my straight razor. Further, I realized I didn’t even own a straight razor.
It was the first time I had ever considered this. That was about an hour ago, and all I’ve been able to think about since then is how badly I need a straight-razor.
The idea of foaming up then coolly running a pearl-handled instrument of death down my cheek for an ultra-close shave suddenly seemed extremely appealing.
Plus with one of those motherfuckers in my boot, I’d be Bad Bad Leroy Brown. I’d be Mr. Blond. I’d be goddamned Stagger Lee.
Without one, I’m the guy who has to stand there with his prick in his hand while another guy with another prick in another hand stands two feet away making small talk.
I’m buying a straight razor. And some boots.
1 Comment
June 5, 2009 at 3:25 pm
Hilarious. I’d recognize that Raul Casanova brand of violently painful humor anywhere. Personally I prefer to resolve my conflicts with the use of live animals, but to each his own.