I swear, the son of a bitch did it on purpose. And I use the term "son of a bitch" loosely... this guy wasn't born, he was grown. From a piece of moldy belly button lint that he mistook as an umbilical cord running from the parasitic host he called a mom.

The bastard I'm referring to, is, of course, used-car-salesman extraoirdinarre, my co-worker, Rob.

We beat the lunch crowd by 5 mins, and the place was empty. Taco Bell tables everywhere, waiting to be sat at, fed upon. He had a choice of premium seats, and where does he pick? The table RIGHT NEXT TO Jabba the Hut. This woman was old. Wrinkled. Very wrinkled. And very fat. Weebleish. Wrinkled Weebles Wobbe But They Won't Fold Down.

She grunted, picked her nose, rubbed the boogers on her varicose leg veins, grunted some more, snorted, and read the book very loudly (did I mention she had a book?). You could her the hinges in her eyeballs squeak. Snort. Rattle.

His side was to her, so he didn't have to look at her putrid body with every ground-meat-filled bite he swallowed. The gooey consistency of the light sour cream, mixed with the grade D beef, made me think of her naked and sweating.

Rob laughed. Fucking parasite.

© 2000, Michael Yanovich. www.mentalsnot.com