living in god’s grace

(interior of tiki bar)
[CONDOR gets drink splashed on him by trashy blond in a cocktail dress. squeegees daiquiri out of his beady eyes with tip of wing. turns to bartender, who is just a burly dude who you only ever see the back of who occasionally nods in a sober but stupid way]
CONDOR: so i don’t get it. i do not. get. it. if everybody walks around in high heels and a shimmery, not-really-there dress, they just look like a cheap whore. and it’s not even like, the kind of people who you expect to bio-mimic prostitutes, such as college girls and like middle-aged ladies gunning for dude’s attention. it’s everyone. school children. grandmothers. on the other hand, i’d be complaining if everybody wore monochromatic t-shirts and cargo shorts too.
DESK (tipped end up leaning against the bar, having a iced glass of lemon pledge): well, i don’t really understand what the fuck you’re even complaining abotu at this point. i mean, yes, in the blocking that girl threw a drink on you, but you didn’t actually make some kind of untoward advance towards here. the drink, as far as i can tell, was thrown on you to symbolize a kind of autodidactic frustration you feel towards the opposite sex…
CONDOR: why don’t you autofuck yourself
DESK (unbowed): because you want to be married, to a thick-ish but like genetically admirable individual, preferable one with interesting hair and basically like your personality with all of the defects blanched from it by the sun of familial love
CONDOR: ok ok ok ok ok don’t get mean
DESK (not listening): but you also want to see yourself in the mirror as some kind of weird errol flynn dude, but that’s not you, so basically it’s like, how is anybody else going to put up with your shit if you can’t?
CONDOR: stop trying to traduce my lifestyle issues into several-sentence rants
DESK: no

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