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Monday - March 04, 2002
Chatty Cathys


There is a breed of john that is too rare to list all by itself. I call them Chatty Cathys. In fact, the visual image they conjure in my head is that of some big lump of plastic with fuzzy hair affixed on top and a big pull string in the back. This is a strain of pervert who, best as I can figure, cannot even pay a therapist to care. In that vein, I suppose it's better to pay the $180/hour to a phone sex line than it is to bore the fuck out of the people around you.

And, make no mistake, these men are boring as fuck.

They are typically a bunch of mealy-mouthed wussy boys who just want someone - anyone - to think they have some semblance of a spine. And, while they try to sound convincing, at some point the stuttering and inordinate pauses cannot help but betray the fact that they are talking constant shit.

Now, ladies and germs, typically I enjoy my job. For the most part even the extreme nutcases give me a chuckle. But the Chatty Cathys are just maddening. Because, frankly, I could be a rock and they've had entirely the same experience. Now, yes, I know what you're thinking: if I'm making money for sitting mute and muttering the occasional "uh huh" into the receiver why should I care.

Because. That's why.

Because I like to at least pretend that there is some element of skill in my job. I'm not just a whore pandering for pennies. I'm not just here to just perform like a trained monkey. Because my job is my job and I think those seeking my services should actually be SEEKING my services.

That said, I won't deny the service or my paycheck the boon. If these fucking losers are going to make someone rich, it might as well be me.

Even if the constant rambling and interruption makes me want to reach into the phone and slash their collective throats.

John: Uh yeah. Then I like went to like this strip joint and it was like one of those places where the girls, umm, are behind glass and like you put in money to watch.

Doxy: Uh-huh 

John: And then, umm, there were like these holes in the wall…

Doxy: Glory holes.

John: Yeah, yeah. The umm glory holes. And like I looked down and there was a big black cock poking out…

Now, here is something to note. Cocks are always big and black in random fantasies. There are no moderately-sized pale cocks, or small tan ones. It turns out that men who like cock are as unimaginative as men who prefer Hooters girls. Also, apparently a stray cock hanging out of the wall doesn't immediately register on these guys. It terrifies me to imagine what the hell the doorknobs look like at their house.

You know, I really only operate by one rule. I don't care if you lie to me, but at least LIE WELL.




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