living proof... if you call that "living"

from: Jackson Gucci

Sometimes Bill would amuse himself by wearing a pair of cheap carpenter's overalls he had painstakingly painted with the identical - EXACT - same design as the floor. "Camouflage," he called the game. Useful for "missions behind enemy lines" - which, in this case, was any room in which his horrible cunt of a wife was drawing breath. He'd lie motionless for hours, listening to her creaky nasal drone as she gossiped on her cellphone with other members of her godforsaken coven, prattling inanely about anything the misfiring synapses in her shriveled brain could shove into her mink's-asshole mouth without having to run it through the lobes first. God, how she droned with her imbecile friends. He listened to the incessant clinking of the ice cubes in her glass, punctuating every syllable as she gestured with her claws, periodically sipping her Merlot (which she pronouced "merr-LOT" like some philistine fucking tourist). Odd how she slurred every word by noon, yet always pronounced "Gucci" with perfect, crisp diction, no matter what time of day. He had long ago surmised it was her lone form of religious devotion, so he would have to eventually decide whether to have the minister just intone the word "Gucci" over and over at her eagerly-awaited funeral, or throw the bitch in the hole - along with her fucking credit cards - and go back to making a life for himself again, picking up where he left off the second he'd spoken to her the first time at his frat's annual "Spring Fling." Bill also enjoyed wearing a suit he'd had made on a business trip to Hong Kong, that perfectly matched the red plaid pattern of his favorite La-Z-Boy recliner. He'd paint his whole head lime green in the bathroom (to match the wallpaper) and sit in utter silence, staring at her was she watched "Wheel of Fortune" and slugged down her fifth Vodka Cocktail, in absolute ignorance of his presence. "Someday I'm going to jump up," he'd think to himself, "that should stop her withered heart for good, goddamit!" ... but he never did. "Let's go to Cabo," the cunt said. "Let's buy that painting," (the more hideous and stupid, the more she wanted it). Good God. He ground his teeth each time she'd pronounce it; "Jackson PO-lock." Fucking idiot pretentious white trash cunt. "It's 'Paul-luk,' you imbecile," he'd growl under his breath, "PAUL-LUK!" But then he'd have to smile and pull out his gold card, and hand it over to some cretin whom he secretly believed KNEW the painting looked more like something a homeless psychopath had vomited on canvas. "Yeah, someday I'm going to jump up, bitch," he'd say to himself, "and you're gone, cunt. You watch."



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