The Profane Parables and Other Nihilistic Narrations by a Perverse Pariah, 1

The Profane Parables and Other Nihilistic Narrations by a Perverse Pariah

Offering Occasional Observations of Odd Occurrences

and an Astonishingly Annoying Amount and Application of Alliteration

The following story contains explicit language, blatant disregard for social cues and expectations, violent and sexual conduct as well as numerous moral ambiguities. It is also sideways-eight-percent true in all aspects. The reader may, understandably, recognize a seemingly unreliable amount of foresight in some aspects. This may elicit skepticism regarding the overall authenticity. In response to this, I'm a precognitive wizard. So there. For these reasons and more, it should be ritualistically recited at bedside to small children, to ensure a future generation full of promising politicians, priests and food service employees.

It was a cold evening, about a quarter after ten. The air was deserted of any amount of moisture, being almost as dry and desolate as the womb and heart of Mother Nature herself. That whole Industrial Revolution thing really walloped her womb. The atmosphere started smoking to cope with her postpartum depression. Consequently, trees would sprout prematurely and be underweight, which made terrible paper, and the moths turned black. Hate crimes, double standards and accusations of racism tripled in the moth community. Mother Nature just hasn't been the same since. 

The highway was covered with snow, ice, and, expectantly, cars. I, your Perverse Pariah (A.K.A. your PP), was standing in solitude at the intersection of this highway awaiting the bus and looking cool and grown up with a cigarette.

Doing away with adjectivally-bloated introductions and setting the setting, this intersection is where our tale can begin.

About a mile down the road from your PP's location, a red sedan was approaching, coughing up enough exhaust and sputtering out enough fluids to give a nursing home a run for its money. Although the cars condition was less than stellar, the road itself was even worse. The woman operating the vehicle (A.K.A. The Driver) was diligently attentive regarding this. She even pulled out her smart phone to google winter-driving-tips, what-to-do- in-the-event-of-hydroplaning-tips, and even how-to-cook-Ramen-Noodles-in-a-coffee-pot tips. She was accompanied by her friend, a Rubenesque* gal wearing glasses (A.K.A. Rubens). She was also also on her phone looking up how-to-piss-off-pedestrians-at-the-bus-stop tips or something like that.

*an artistic term for "fat," in reference to the critically acclaimed chubby-chaser and painter, Peter Paul Rubens.

The Driver had finished researching how to press a power button on a coffee pot and noticed the red light just in time. Sliding to a screeching stop, she was relieved that no other cars were present to view her embarrassing blunder. Rubens, however, noticed the sexually magnetic and physically chiseled Adonis-of-a-man standing in solitude on the corner, smoking a cigarette.

"Wow, look at that guy," Rubens said as a foggy film developed on her glasses. "I bet he has like a fourteen inch shoe size."

"I didn't know shoes were measured in inches," The Driver replied, also noticing the invigorating physical perfection of your PP.

Suddenly, Rubens wound down the passenger window. She wanted to say something charming, something enticing, something that could convince a sexy stranger to get into the car and join them for hot coffee, or even sex. She did, however, have a tendency to lose her nerve and blurt out random obscenities. There was a pause as The Driver wondered what Rubens was thinking of doing.

"STOP SUCKING DICK FOR FREE!" Rubens shouted to your PP, rolling up her window incredibly fast, yet slow enough to just hear his respectful and resolute reply of "Fuck you, cunt."

The light had turned green and the Sorority of the Red Sedan drove off, out of the sight and mind of your PP.

Your PP's wait was hitherto uneventful. He finished looking cool and grown up and littered the street with his cigarette ass.The bus came shortly afterwards. Your PP took a seat in the back and pretended to read his book, since crackheads generally don't try to peddle people pretending to read books. About fifteen minutes into the ride, the bus suddenly stops in the middle of a low-traffic street adjacent to the highway. A red sedan is blocking the path, and its hazard lights are on.

Upon closer inspection, a tire skid mark prominent enough to be in Andre the Giant's post-event jockstrap leads to the tethered remains on the rear wheel. The tire had apparently popped somewhere in between the acts of duck-face-selfies-strongly-indicative-of-a-same-sex-relationship and mascara application. The Driver and Rubens are inside, and both of their phones have run out of battery. The Driver had 6% left during the mascara application, Rubens, 4% during duck-face-selfies-strongly-indicative-of-a-same-sex-relationship. The sedan's age predates phone chargers. But, even if they decided to go door-to-door requesting electricity like a cup of sugar, they had both forgot their chargers. And even if they went door-to-door requesting both the use of electricity and a phone charger, like a cup of sugar and two packets of Kool-Aid for the sugar, the nearest house was five miles away. It was owned by a moderately successful pharmacist by day, dissociative dabbler in the dark arts by night kinda guy. He had a penchant for farming equipment and knives. He also didn't own a cell phone.

Meanwhile, the driver maneuvers the bus around the scene, and your PP gets to the Roman Bathhouse in time for the volunteer Lemon Party, for which he'd receive no pay.

The End.