Shut it!

What the--?!?!

Whoa!

Close the door, close the door! Close the fucking door! For God’s sake, for Satan’s love, for all that is holy and whole and for all the holes in the universe: close that motherfuckin’ door! No, really: close it! What the fuck?! Come on! How else am I gonna say it? Close it, shut it, make it un-open, mind that gap and make it disappear, ‘cause I fucking mind the fuck out of that fucking gap! So, close it, please, really, pretty please, super please: close it! For fucking fuck’s sake!

Yeah, so I swear, so what? Get used to it! I’m in here doing my thing and you’re in there fucking things up with my thing. I’m doing my thing, it’s my thing and myself, it does not involve you, so fuck off and close the door behind you because fuck off, really. What’s my language gotta do with it? Seriously! I swear, yeah! Woopdee-fucking-doo!  I say fuck, so fucking what? Really! Close the door na-fucking-ow. That’s right, I’ve managed to nudge fuck in a one-syllable word. So fucking what? You gonna sue me? No? Then please close that fucking door!

I’m up to no good, I’m doing things you don’t wanna know about, I’m choking and pulling and oiling and rubbing things you don’t wanna know about, trust me. Really. Fucking trust me already. So close that motherfucking door before I tear it off its hinges and shove it so deep up your ass even your spelunking cock of a husband won’t be able to find it, not with his spelunking cocksucking friends, not with his cocksucking spelunking equipment, and not even, and especially not with his cocksucking cock. Yeah, I’m saying your husband is gayer than a day in May and I’m not saying that’s wrong, I’m just saying you’re gonna have to wait a long long time before he decides to spelunk your grotto. You dig?

So, come on: close that fucking door! I don’t know how else to tell you! It’s awkward enough as it is, but here I am monologuing or soliloquing or whatever! You’re looking at me and I’m spewing my shit, and I mean my shit is spewing out of my mouth for now, okay? But all I want is for you to close that fucking door, so why aren’t you closing, shutting, that fucking fuck of a fucking door? Don’t you know that the sooner you shut it, the sooner I’ll shut up? I’m on a roll, I can’t stop, I’m a whirling, swirling, spinning Dervish on a quest and you’re the ground I trample to find the truth, the absolutism, the ultimatism, the totality, the whole.

Yeah, whatever: close that fucking door before I get up and punch the living shit out of you. Literally. I’ll stand up, walk to you and punch you so hard you’ll shit this morning’s breakfast into your cheap K-Mart pants and then you’ll weep and cry and go on Sally Jesse or Geraldo or whoever is out there nowadays and you’ll moan about how much of a monster I am and you’ll talk about the time you shat your pants that time I punched you so hard, which is about to be right now if you don’t close that fucking door. Really. Don’t make me get up, woman. Consider this a friendly warning.

Yeah. Stare at me if you must. Look at me if you can. Talk to me if you have to. Speak if you are able to. Fuck! See what you make me do?! You turned me into a fucking English-as-a-Foreign-Language teacher and for that alone you deserve to lose your teeth and your tits and your eyes and your face. And your bowels and your flesh and your scalp and your liver.

Seriously: I will punch the face off of you if you don’t at this very moment turn around and close that fucking door behind you.

Atta’ girl! Good! Thanks! Great! Good. Really. Okay. Nice. Thanks. For your sake, really: thanks. Okay. Close it all the way. Yeah. And yes: I’ll be right down for dinner.

Thanks for letting me know, mom.