39 Snappy Comebacks After Being Rejected By A Female in a Bar

1. Good...More money for me!

2. Thanks, I needed a break from all the constant sexual activity

3. That's okay, i was just getting you away from your hot friend so my buddy could make some time with her, and seeing that they just walked out together, I made my twenty bucks.

4. Okay, but can I still call you later?

5. Hmm..does that thing on your face always leak pus like that?

6. Hey, that's funny....no, no,...really.

7. Please, please, please, please, please

8. Okay, but is it okay with you if I tell my friends you're a dyke? Could you grab that girl's ass so they'll believe me?

9. Oh come on, your mouth says no, but your eyes, ...well, they say no too, but you left felbow, your left elbow is clearly saying yes.

10. I'm rubber and your glue......

11. WHAT?

12. Say hello to my little friend.

13. I heard about women like you. Listen, would you mind if i take a picture of you? The folks back home will never believe I actually met one.

14. Okay, that didn't work. How about Rock, paper scissors?

15. It's because of my weight isn't it? It's just that these pants make my butt look big.

17. Guess I'll just ahve to go solo to Bono's Christmas soiree.

18. Ouch. That's just mean.

19. Well, there's more fish in the sea..i was just trying to have a go at it with a human for a change.

20 Who's the loser now? Who's the loser now?

21. Are you sure? It's Drew Carey bobblehead night at my apartment.

22. That's strange, how did you know it would fit up there?

23. My therapist tells me this is good for my emotional growth.

24. I know you arem but what am i?

25. So, i guess you making wings and ribs for me and the boys for the game this Saturday is out of the question?

26. Oh, oh, I get it, but if I don't see it as lowering my standards, why should you feel you're not worthy?

27. Alright, but you're gonna have to give this fifty bucks back to your brother, i don't take money for a job i didn't finish.

28. It's because of my breath isn't it? I can stop breathing you know.

29. But I walked all the way over here!

30. No, no, you heard me wrong. I didn't say" how about we go out", I said, " How is yoru gout?"

31. I'll drink to that.

32 There's no place like home, there's no place like home.

33. Sure, it's all about you...what about my feelings?

34. Okay, but could you do just one thing for me....pull my finger.

35. I get the sense you're dealing with some issues....do you need a hug.

36. You're kidding right?

37. I'll drink to that.

38. Okay, If i go out and get a job, take a bath, change my underwear, lose 50 pounds and get this boil lanced, then can we go out?

39. Whoa, it's a good thing I'm not sensitive.

Beechwood Rooftops

Stark naked in an incoherent sunrise. 26 degrees in the Hamilton 6am. Pollution index 35 on its way to 54. A poor air quality day. Seniors and those with respiratory ailments are advised to stay indoors. Humidex to hit 44. Heat alert has been issued.

Awake since 3:53, I smoke cigarettes and skim through a two day old newspaper. Coffee drips. Sports scores and obituaries and photos of tanned girls in orange swimsuits limp through my insomniac brain in a metronomic malaise. The factory fires burn, protrude a hopeful glow in the sky above the Beechwood Avenue rooftops.

Beechwood Avenue, August 20

the bed of memory remains unmade,
the sheets are stained
and reek of sweat

It's Tuesday on Beechwood Avenue.
It's August 20th. It's hot. The neighbor waters his brown grass by hand with a hose in true Italian fashion. Across the street, the mother is out, the father and his buddy watch the kids with growls and yells. The smallest catches a finger in the van door and catches hell from the father and gets an ice pack, eventually, once the sobbing subsides. Next door to them, a young single mother calls for one of her cats, coaxing it home by rattling a tin of cat treats. I sit on the front porch, smoking, looking at her large, firm breasts, which remind me of Jenifer's, love number four or five.

wooden box

He started listening to Dexter Gordon after he'd seen him a movie during a lonely time in his life. He didn't remember the name of the movie, but he was affected by Gordon's utter elegant cool. Regal cool, with his deep, pained voice of life. He wished he'd been black and raw cool like Dexter. He wished he could caress the emotions out like him. He bought a harmonica because he could not afford a saxophone and would play it in the bathroom when no one was home. It worked, for a time.
Now in his fifties, he was used to being alone. He no longer felt lonely. He'd surrendered those emotions or they'd merely just drifted away. He existed, that was enough at this point. He played the harmonica twice a year on significant dates, then returned the instrument to a wooden box he'd inherited from his father. His father had kept tie pins, cuff links and old coins in the box. He had kept them for no particular reason, though he had no reason to ever wear them, not did he have a shirt with cuffs even if he did.

dance with penumbra

in the slaughterhouse
all faces look the same

We lay together, the putrid flavor of your liquid a remnant on my langauge,

Our passion spent, its stench hangs in the room, sweetened slightly by the fresh March breeze that seeps through the open window, brushes back the burgundy curtains, softly, gently, like the hands of the lover i was moments before. Smoking cigarettes i the vacuum, words that got us here now stick in the throat and must be spit out, expurgated--sputtering, the words echo in the hollow, betray our legends.

We pull at the damp sheets, cover portions of our pink, pimpled flesh--so suddenly naked, weathering the vast, terrifying minutes between desire and sleep.

purgaotory words

A full June moon crests the trees outside the window. Sucking on cigarettes and slurping rye whisky mixed with coke -with ice- which is significant as the music the ice makes as it rattles around inside the glass is a music that is magnificent within my spirit, harkens ancient echoes of joyous, boisterous drunken days, when insouciance flowed with fiery frenzy and females flitted in and out of my arms.
Distant thunder threatens the full moon, its reverberating wind stirring the trees, blowing back the worn, faded curtains on the window. Sitting, smoking, drinking and writing--i chant a vanquished, ancient chant, laud bone and sinew, cartilage and restless lust with the language of desire and the solace of surrender, emit hoary odor of dried blood, remnant passion, stark embrace and edible stain.
Purgatory words echoing in the murky chamber of memory.
Nights pass like this--murky with rye whisky and cigarettes. Nothing particularly wrong with that. There are some implications, healthwise, I suppose--so be it. Certain things you trade for a notion of balance

true love

She has had four or five, maybe six one true loves since the time she determined that i was not her one true love and that my services would no longer be required. Love isn't what it used to be,

because

Because it is wild,frenzied and illuminous. Because is spits sweet venom and sweats holy water and wine. Because it dances furious in the omniscient panic, leaping and bounding in spastic glory, quivering and shivering ecstatic. Because it hurtles unbounded, arms splayed across the horizon. Because it exults and tumults, expurgates and proliferates, desires and divines and hollers great joyous ancient chants into the ethereal flame of night. Because it is immaculate energy, pure, restless, ignoble. Because it embraces with an omnipotent lovers embrace, convulsing and fervent, digging into flesh with broken passion nails. Because it propagates, satiates, and mystifies. Because it propels true rumors, and thrives fully, completely in the joyous wonder in an infants eyes.