More Notes of a Dirty Old Man Read Free Page B

the shit, and thank god for that. Maybe that’s why I’m a peepfreak and a jackoff artist. I can’t stand pussy around all the time. I mean sitting around terrorizing me with her up and down emotions and crazy head. Another beer? Right at your foot there, half a six-pack. More in the box. Here in America a man ain’t a man unless he’s got three or four whores and a late model car. All right, I’m a little drunk. Maybe that’s why I mock myself. But put a new car and 3 women on my back and I’m fucked. I don’t have a t.v. I don’t even have a radio. A big Brazilian cunt who wants to put that thing on me, calls me the last of the monsters. A monster-angel, whatever that means. But I’m running from her too, tho she’d be a beautiful fuck, a tremendous fuck. There’s something inside of me grown a little wiser. After that walk back from the bathroom you start sharing a little two person hell. Yes, I’ve got a story, but wait, let me get another beer. Sure, I’m a degenerate peepfreak. I’d rather look at it. I don’t want to get on top of it. Understand? So, I got this funny story. For peepfreaks. All right, Frank, I know you ain’t a peepfreak. But pretend you’re one. No, I ain’t a homo, goddamn, why does that always come up?
    I said I wasn’t feeling good, so don’t give me any shit. Sometimes I feel so bad I think I’m going nuts. You ever felt that way, Frank? No? Well, you’re just a nice American beerdrunk with standard American feelings. You like to feel like a MAN. Doesn’t that make you feel good to feel like a MAN, Franky boy? No, I don’t want to fight. Suppose I won the fight? Your whole life would be ruined. Why do you interrupt me? I’m trying to get over and tell this funny peepfreak story, and I’ll bet you’ve done some peeping too—on buses or with the ladies climbing out of cars or bending over garbage cans. No, I don’t have a dirty mind; I just enjoy myself the way I am. Fuck off. I told you I’m not feeling good. Throw me another beer. Shit. I can’t even go get my laundry. I’m going nuts. I even forgot where I TOOK my laundry! And when I find that , there’ll be another chickenshit thing I’ll have to do that is driving me crazy. What’s that? I have to get a HAIRCUT! Look, dentists are nothing, but barbers TERRORIZE me! They are such ASSHOLES, that’s why, Frank. That’s why! You know the most TERRIBLE thing?? Eh? Frank, when they finish, they’ve just got to SPIN me in that chair, right BLAM in front of that MIRROR and I’ve got to look at my FACE, pretend to look at my HAIR, as if I gave a damn whether there was a piece of hair sticking up here or there! Who cares? Shit, man, I just want to get OUT of there! And there’s that asshole barber standing behind me, I see him in the mirror, he’s yawning and I’m on fire, and then I’m supposed to say “fine” or “o.k.” I don’t know where hell is, but it’s gotta be in a barbershop. It’s such smucky vain finky shit, jesus, who built men this way? Give me a dentist putting his elbow on my chest, sweating, with liquor on his breath. He gets the thing—“narrrrr, that didn’t hurt, did it?” and then you spit out the blood and half of your jaw: “narrrrrb, narrrrrb, o.k., blooooooop . . .” You’re not indebted—spiritually—and he begins whistling. Dentists always have this wonderful lack of faith in their ability that barbers don’t have, no matter how lousy barbers are. And most of them are, not that it matters. So then the son of a bitch of a barber unfrocks you and you are supposed to get up real calm, like the whole thing was so lovely and sweet and you are now a new man, and then you have to pay and TIP the son of a bitch! “Good-bye, now,” he says, “see you later.” “Goodbye,” you say. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
    I’m trying to tell this peepfreak story. What? Yeah. I know, I KNOW! I know that many men like barbers. Many men sit in barbershops for hours and they don’t even