Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

THE INNSMOUTHBREATHER

Nancy never signed up for this.

It had been just over a year since she turned a blind eye to exactly how tight and attractive Carl’s new rock climbing instructor was, and just over nine months since Carl moved out so that he could rappel into the little whore’s crevasse with relative impunity and annoying frequency. Now, with two divorces notched in her belt, the only men in her life were Ben, Jerry, and the pimply checkout boy at Pavilion’s who rang up her Triple Caramel Chunk. Also with annoying frequency. Tonight, though, was different. Tonight she had acquiesced to Ellen’s constant coaxing and agreed – just this once – to join her on her weekly pilgrimage to the Happy Hour at Joe’s Crab Shack. Nancy’s makeup was worn from 10 hours of eye-rubbing and face-palms, and she had actually planned to wash her hair later that evening but still, she went anyway. Not because she was a good sport, but because she hadn’t given two shits about this sort of thing since Valentine’s Day and now lacked the necessary energy to blow her friend off any longer. Whee.

Within 15 minutes of arriving, Ellen was off. That made sense, thought Nancy. Of all the gals at the office, Ellen was the least encumbered by current relationships and the least frayed and shopworn by past ones. She also had the best tits and made sure everyone knew it. When the waiter brought Ellen’s order of buffalo wings to her empty barstool, Nancy helped herself. Wings for the winggirl. She allowed herself one acquiescent chuckle at the symmetry of it. There was no reason to be alone and hungry.

But what Nancy didn’t realize was that she was not alone.

“Izzzh thizh  zhtool taken?”

Nancy politely covered her mouth to prevent spewing chewed chicken from flying out of her mouth. There was something fishy about the mannish creature that half walked, half hopped up to her table. And not “fishy” in the metaphorical sense, either. Her admirer had a moist translucence to him that one rarely witnessed outside of a dim sum cart, and with each breath his lips visibly parted, as if he were a koi waiting to be fed.

“It zheemzh a crime that a lovely lady like yourzhelf zzzzhould be zhitting alone. May I?”

“F@#k no, Kermit!” was what her brain told her but her lips had gone dry, as she realized with mounting horror that the smell of crab shack dumpster that she had assumed was an errant breeze from the kitchen was in fact emanating from her new boyfriend. God damn you, Ellen.

Kermit waved to the waiter and Nancy forced herself to blink. Were his fingers webbed? “Another Zzzzzzzhima for the lady, por favor.” and with that entitlement, the creature pulled itself onto Ellen’s woefully vacant stool. “I haven’t zheen you around here before. My name izzzh Howard. But my friends call me Kermit.” Sweet Jesus, seriously? Nancy felt reality losing its grasp on her. Had some deep, genetic memory told her its name was Kermit. Had some unearthly…wait, it has friends? Nancy’s head pulsed with the math of it all. Two Zimas were not enough to make her feel like this. The wings, maybe? She drowsily scanned the room for Ellen, but she was doubtlessly hip-deep in a personal trainer somewhere. Awesome.

Suddenly, the author realized that he had to pick up his buddy at the airport in 20 minutes and he hadn’t even showered yet. So Nancy ended up in a bathroom stall with Kermit, started talking in italics and was never heard from again. The End.