“She spoke too much, she spoke too much. She just spoke too much. I'm not looking for excuses, I'm not looking for your forgiveness. She just spoke too much, what else can I say? She spoke too much! I'm not taking the fifth, and I’m not saying I was right. All I’m saying is I wasn’t wrong. Really. You understand. You’d have done the same thing. Seriously. I mean… I mean how many questions can the bitch ask? Seriously. ‘Do you like my new shoes? What did you get me for Christmas? What’s wrong with you? Is my make up on okay? What do you want for dinner? Do you love me?' and on and on and on. I mean, for fuck's sake: Enough with the questions already! Stop talking! I'm going crazy, here! Okay, for those of you who have nothing else to do, here are the answers to the questions, in the same order:
- No, they’re fugly.
- I didn’t get you shit yet, it’s only September, for crying out loud!
- Well, since you asked, actually: I can’t stand you, your mean eyes, your fat legs, your dirty hair and your forever-yappin’ mouth!
- No, you look like a deranged raccoon who’s just been raped in the Sahara by a retarded badger!
- I want food, that’s all I want and that’s all I need, so get behind the stove and cook and if you can't manage that, then call for a goddamn pizza, light sauce, extra pepperoni!
- Do I really need to answer that?
There. Now you know. I didn’t love her anymore. She used to be young, she used to be leggy and beautiful and tight all over. Then she got older and chubby all over. Even her pussy felt like a slab of ten-year old bacon left to rot in the sun. Yeah, I know, I shouldn't be saying shit like that. My lawyer told me as much. But shit, come on: You're a man, too. You know how it is. Sure, we gotta be PC and all that shit, but come on: If we didn’t have to, we’d be tellin’ them what’s what: ‘I work, I toil, I sweat, I put food on the table. You clean, you cook, you raise the kids and you shut the fuck up.’ Is that too much to ask? Back to the fucking middle-ages is what I say. Nowadays, men are weepy and weak and gotta talk about their feelings. Fuck that shit. I wanna smoke, I wanna eat a rare steak and I want head whenever I ask for it. Really, is that too much to ask for? Is that sexist? Okay, then call me sexist, scream all you want! ‘Just cook me my steak and get on your knees and swallow what’s coming to you!’ Okay, okay, don’t get mad, I’m just explaining things to you, here. Really. I’m a decent guy once you get to know me. I vote Democrat, I’m in the PTA , I don’t run red lights, I wash my crotch daily. No, I don’t want your pity, I’m just telling you how it all happened… What? I’m not telling you? Okay, I’ll tell you. Sure... What the hell…
I worked hard all day, dealing with asshole bosses who think they know everything. I get home, I expect dinner, but no: she’s watching The West Wing and Toby and Josh are mad at each other, so she can’t be bothered to fry me up some beans. So I get in the kitchen, pissed off. I look for a pan, how the fuck am I supposed to know where the pans are? I look and I look, and I find what your honor calls ‘Evidence Number 2.’ That gives me an idea, so I run to the garage for Evidence Number 1. Then I walk to the living room and find Evidence Number 3. Okay, okay… In short: In the living room, I find the glass ashtray. I don’t think: I just pick it up and hit her over the head. The ashtray breaks, her head doesn’t, but she falls down screaming bloody murder. Insulting me. The nerves on the bitch! To calm her down, I lean over her, grab her thinning whitening hair and hit her head against the floor. Only three times. Not five, like the DA’s been saying. Honest to God! Only three times. She shuts up, thank heavens. She’s stunned or whatever. With my left hand, I pry open her lips and with Evidence 2, my trusty pair of pliers, I grab hold of her tongue. I pull it out. Gently, mind you, gently. I didn’t break no teeth like the DA said. Anyway, then Evidence 1 comes into play. The scissors, yeah… So, I’m pullin’ out the tongue with one hand and I got scissors in the other. You know the kind. The kind school-children use to cut up shapes in colored papers and what have you. You know: small red plastic handles, round edges. Safe to run with and shit. So, anyway… Her tongue’s out, her eyes are bulging, her hands are flapping. Good thing I was smart enough to sit on her chest and block her arms with my knees. I ‘open’ the scissors, I bring ‘em closer to her pink in-mouth muscle. And I took a moment. That’s right, I did. I savored the moment. Do you know how satisfying it was when the blades closed down on her tongue? Do you? I bet you don’t. Well, lemme tell you: it was quasi-orgasmic. It was like cutting through raw veal. Soft, with just a tiny bit of resistance. Blood was flowing everywhere, but that was okay. I started cutting my way down. Squish-squish went the blades. Kinda like: ‘squish squash, I was taking a blood bath.’ But the truly amazing part was when I hit the nerve. The smallest of resistance was felt in the blades and then a satisfying soft crunching sound. And the tongue was dead. Red was everywhere, but I knew she was done talking. For good. Finally. So really, if anything: you should be thanking me. Her yapping is at an end. I did the world a favor. My advice to them fucked up Muslims is: don’t bother sewing a girl’s poon, sew her mouth and then fuck her senseless. That’s more logical. Right?... What? What did I say? What? Oh, I’m the crazy one, here?! Okay… How about we talk again in a few years. I bet you’ll come running to me, asking for advice. In the meantime, I’m guessing I’ll be in solitary, right? Yeah… You know where to find me. Kumbaya to you, your honor.”
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