You Aim too, Please

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I don’t like to be told what to do. Never have. I’m smart. Real smart. Started talking at eight months. First word was Fuck, second word, No. “Fuck No”—it’s always been my motto. Everyone needs a motto. If you don’t make one for yourself, somebody will beat you to it and give you a crappy one you hate, like “Being a pansy is an invitation for people to shit down your throat.” Ain’t nobody ever shit down my throat because I beat them to it every time.

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Just six months ago, I was busting my ass landscaping an Applebee's. Crepe Myrtles. Daffodils. Real pretty stuff. But the old nutsack boiled inside my Carhartts. 125 frickin’ degrees. I chugged at least 50 gallons of water, and after a couple hours my bladder screamed for mercy. I’m a camel. Told the bladder to shut the hell up. She cried like a little bitch. I hate tears. So I went inside, whipped out the wiener, and noticed this message above the urinal: “We aim to please. You aim too, please.”

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I let loose with three hours of backed-up piss all over their pretty red tile. Nobody was gonna boss me around about the way I pee. You don’t like it, you can drink it.

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Anyhoo, this man-bunned cock-socket with bleached teeth waltzed in, slipped on the puddle, hit his head, and passed out cold. There was no fuckin’ way I was taking the fall for his fall. So I announced loud enough for the whole dining room to hear: “You might want to check the men’s room before someone breaks a leg. There’s an unconscious tooth fairy drowning in his own piss.”

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I went on my merry way, without a care in the world. But five days later, Officers Frick and Frack popped up at my front door with a video. Turns out the restroom had a camera, and there I was, draining my Long Dong Silver all over the floor. I wasn’t scared. I was thinking: Lawsuit time! I didn’t consent to dick pics. Long story short, my lawyer, an asshole’s asshole, won me the biggest settlement in the state of Nebraska. Fifteen million dollars. Now the filters were off, baby. No more shackles. I could do whatever I wanted.

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First thing I did was trade the F-150 for a candy-ass red Ferrari with leather seats and that prancing horse on the back—a pony taking a dump on every Corvette, Camaro, or Porsche on the road. Ain’t no car better. Or faster. Or more lethal.

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I hauled ass straight over to this wrinkled old shit-heel who lived six blocks over. The loser had nothing better to do than stand outside his house at night with a speed tracker and a sign that said, “Slow down, asshole.” I pinned it at 80 miles per hour right past the cadaver’s driveway. If a Girl Scout had been crossing the road, I wouldn’t have given a shit. She could have gotten flattened for all I cared—I never did get my eight boxes of Thin Mints and I was righteously pissed. I zoomed past Methuselah’s yard, his brown toupee flipping right off his head and his eyes bulging like baseballs. He keeled over dead, still clutching his sign. I roared off. Didn’t have time for his heart attack. His body was halfway in the road anyway—if someone else ran him over, I was freer than a 33rd-degree Mason.

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Welp, before I knew it, Frick and Frack were up my ass again. Seems like the whole damned world is on camera these days. I called the asshole's asshole and told him I was in trouble for hit-and-run and speeding. He just laughed. Told me his frat bro from thirty years ago was a slimy psychiatrist who hated cops, and he’d get him assigned to my case. The charges would vanish if I confessed to some kind of trauma.

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“Trauma does not cause me to be anything,” I barked, “because I cause trauma. Me. I specialize in it, do you hear me?!” I head-butted him across his desk to make sure he got the point. But since the butt-plug insisted it was the only way to stay out of a jumpsuit, a week later I showed up at Dr. Todd Todson’s office.

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His waiting room was full of that horse-and-fox-hunting shit. Old money vibes. Like those old Ralph Lauren commercials where entitled pricks play polo with gopher-teeth smiles. Too much burgundy and hunter green. It smelled like a big-ass trust fund and boinking the maid while wifey was away at the spa. I liked it. A lot. Oh, not the decor—I meant boinking the maid.

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I was still sizing up the furniture when this tall, blonde man with the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen plopped down next to me. “Mr. Fraiser, I’m so sorry for being late. There was an emergency at the orphanage in Sri Lanka. Very sad. A set of darling triplets had yet to find a suitable home. After praying, I knew what I had to do: fly out, bring them home, and welcome them into our family.”

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What a wuss, I thought. And as he droned on about his wife, homeschooling three kids, and running a sheep farm where all the wool got donated to freezing Ukrainian families, I realized this wasn’t the doctor my lawyer set me up with.

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“Hey,” I cut in while he blabbed about shipping Bibles to Zimbabwe. “I thought I was seeing Todd Todson.”

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“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m his replacement, Stephen Peters. Dr. Todson fled the country. The FBI tracked him for years. Remember those fake Nigerian prince emails floating around a few years back? That was Dr. Todson. Started the whole thing. I even fell for it myself.”

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I sat there, squeezing my eyes shut to squeeze out a single, tragic tear. “His poor wife,” I sniffled, trying to sound like one of those sorry-ass types who carry tampons in case a woman has an emergency and quote Taylor Swift lyrics on demand.

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Then it happened. He hugged me so hard it squeezed the oxygen right out of my lungs. The last time a man held me like that, Gramps was choking on his applesauce in the nursing home. It was worth letting the old bastard hold me as long as he wanted—the second his carcass crashed to the linoleum and he gasped for air, I fished a ten-pound wallet and a gold watch out of his sweater. See ya, Pee-paw! Thanks for dying.

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Gramps was long gone, but right then, I was trapped in Stephen’s low-T embrace. His cologne smelled like an outhouse doused in expensive French perfume. But as he held me, I thought: This guy is a eunuch. A no-nutsack, weeping sissy boy. What an opportunity.

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We met every week for therapy. A half-hour before each session, I smoked a butt-load of pot to ensure my eyes stayed bloodshot. I told him I’d been locked inside a dog cage for the first ten years of my life, let out only to take shits and forced to pick up my own crap with a grocery bag. Told him I was a bait dog forced into bloody fights with Rottweilers. My dick got ripped off in a match, I said, so now I have to piss through my belly button. Oh, I laid it on thick.

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Since I didn’t have a dick—cough, cough—he wasn’t nervous about leaving me alone with his wife, Citizen. Yes, her parents were commie hippie freaks, but she was a total smoke show. Think Sydney Sweeney with a bigger set of tits. We screwed like feral rabbits in every room, nook, and cranny of their house. His kids were annoying little assholes, always whining, “Use your inside voice!” whenever we got too loud. I fixed the cretins. I started slipping Benadryl into their grape juice, guaranteeing us a seamless six-hour bone-fest.

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Every Tuesday session, I showed up with my pot-red eyes, spun a new horror story about my imaginary dog-cage days, and watched Stephen weep into a tissue. By Thursday, I’d be at his house drugging his kids while Citizen screamed my name against his headboard. It was a brilliant routine, but the clock was ticking on the double-homicide trial for flattening Mr. Martin and a Girl Scout. Old Frick and Frack had a mountain of evidence.

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Turned out the little shit-stain had been on her very first mission after surviving months of rheumatic fever, just trying to deliver Thin Mints to the neighborhood. The prosecutor laid it on thick, but Stephen was ready.

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He adjusted his bow tie, took the stand, and delivered the performance of his life. Looking right at the jury with wet puppy-dog eyes, he swore under oath that my brain was a shattered territory of trauma. He testified that when I saw that uniform, my dog-cage PTSD triggered a total psychotic break. He practically begged them for mercy, claiming I was just running from the invisible Rottweilers in my head. I sat at the defense table shivering like a saint. The jury bought every single syllable.

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I was free! Free to bump fuzz with Citizen as much as I wanted. We cleaned out his bank account and fled to Mexico. Now we’re living like fuckin’ royals in a three-story condo on the Pacific Ocean, smoking designer weed, dancing the Macarena, and kicking sand in the faces of anyone who gets in our way. Meanwhile, Stephen is left back home, tending to his mini-me asshats: Riley, Riggins, Remmi, Dicktoo, Mumbar, and Casab.