Less is most definitely more these days-juicehead is out, and the last thing I need right now is to be typecast. They say the brain is the most powerful muscle but watching as I flex my right bicep I beg to differ. I mean I can still rock out a wife beater and go toe to toe with any guinea but my body definition is a lot more subtle these days. And besides who the fuck wants to live their life afraid to take a shit in case they lose protein? Leading men these days gotta be a bit more fag (or have one in ‘em) to get a job. Diversity n’ all that. Apparently women no longer want the strong silent type but what the hell is a guy meant to say to a girl he just fucked down the side of a nightclub alley?
The way I see it I gotta pay my dues, maybe do some Billy Shakesqueer and hug some trees like Mark Wahlberg before I can get some serious action and be the next Stallone. First thing’s first though-I gotta nail Thursday’s gig. What was the line again? I check the inside of my arm which confirms “Stay cool as a cucumber with Fierce for men”.
“Hey Ricki I hope you’ve got table five’s order on that wank paddle of yours.”
“Sure thing Tone.”
Christ the only thing worse than working in this godforsaken shit hole is having to entertain ball breakers like him. Stupid guinea wouldn’t know a star if Monroe came in flashing her panties. Shit, he’d probably turn the air con off to stop her playing with her dress-electricity ain’t cheap he’d say. This place is so irrelevant it won’t pass for an anecdote or even a quip in my autobiography when I’m famous.
“Ricki what are you stupid? Table fuckin’ five and don’t make me have to repeat myself again.”
“Sorry Tone.”
“And enough with the Tone shit do I look like a Soprano or some sort of Gambino to you?”
Well actually…
“Sorry Mr. Lentini.”
“Alright alright just take care of table five before fatty starts whipping out the Special K bars-it’s bad for business.”
By the time I reach table five she’s practically crawled into her bag, and upon noticing me is visibly flushed. However her embarrassment is short-lived when she shamelessly orders the entire menu with a gallon of diet coke to flush it down. I reckon the amount of protein this girl expels after meal time alone is enough to make any juicehead cry into their turkey rye bread sandwiches.
Walking down the boulevard I can’t help but notice how tanned all the homeless are. I check my own faded completion in a shop window and feel cheated. And I have to pay ten dollars a pop just to maintain it-where’s the justice in that?
I debate going to the gym until I feel a twinge in my shoulder as a result of carrying that fat bitch’s deep fried babies. The least she could have done is left a decent tip. I spent the best part of two hours waiting her table and for what? A measly four dollars…and one of her used napkins even touched my skin. My disdain is momentarily pasteurised by a rollerblading ass, which after a few seconds comes into focus to reveal a whole fantastic body only to be shattered by the catcalls of a shrieking homosexual dramatically lagging behind. Jesus I get it you’re gay and as if reading my mind he screams, “OMG.”

I’m about to do a sunbed when I figure I’ll get just as good a tan waiting on the bus home that never comes. By the time I reach my bus stop an old homeless man has already set up base camp, and is preaching about George Clinton and the power of the million man march. I sit beside him and indulge him as he’s seated right in the middle of a sun trap, and wonder do all homeless people possess this innate ability to harness the sun?
The sun hasn’t even had the opportunity to flirt never mind kiss me by the time the bus dumps itself unceremoniously on the sidewalk. When I get on it’s hot as balls so I make my way right down the back desperate to avoid human contact. I’m looking out enviously at the homeless bastard lapping up the sun when a fat miscellaneous flab of ethnicity slams me into the window. Her rancid perfume of funky feet and Roquefort cheese armpits causes me to gag as I watch my homeless nemesis smile on blissfully.

By the time I get home, I’m physically weak having had to spend the entire bus journey with my face down my top. On the plus side though I now have a great affinity for Fierce products which will definitely stand to me on Thursday.
When I walk through the front door I find Cassidy slumped out on the couch watching TV.
“Hey babe.” she says eyes focused on the screen.
I walk over and kiss her on the head.
“Oh my god you stink and why are you wearing that tragic thing?”
“I got stuck beside some girl who…” I say before I’m interrupted.
“Was she being political? Or making some kind of statement or something?
“No she was just fat.”
“Ughh don’t say another word I think I’m going to vomit.”
“Okay I’m going to jump into the shower.”
“Well make sure you use the loofa and throw it out – or better still BURN IT – when you’re done.”
I laugh although judging by her contorted reaction she’s deadly serious.
“And burn that hideous uniform while you’re at it. What if someone actually seen you in it?”