Behold! The Ultimate Battle of The Sexes!

 

Suggested Audio Jukebox ♫

 

[1] Paul McCartney & Wings “Live and Let Die“
[2] Jeffrey Osborne “On The Wings of Love”
[3] Survivor “Burning Heart”
[4] Frank Sinatra “Strangers in The Night”

 

 

Sounds terribly exciting right? I’ve done my homework and it would appear that the battle of the sexes entails an epic power struggle between man and woman. It may be a good time to head off to the lobby and grab yourselves that wiener as the upcoming bout promises to be monumental. Expect harsh words to cut deep, spirits to be broken, blood to be spilled and try not to mention to my dickhead that he’s odds on to suffer all three, and more besides. You could argue that I’m tossing him into the lion’s den wearing chain mail made of steak; but I prefer to think of it as throwing my dickhead a bone. You see, while there’s no getting around the fact that he’s stuck with himself for life, I’m offering him the chance to find true happiness and inner contentment. Just because he’s a bag of fucking tools; doesn’t mean he doesn’t possess heart or yearn for a happy ending. This encounter promises to be bruising and deeply humiliating; but it’s all in the name of that four-lettered word we all get doe-eyed over.

No, not cunt. The other one. And don’t even think of reshaping it to lurve as that’s five letters of non-committal right there and informed only by aching genitals. Love is reported not to cost a thing, can lift us up where we belong, will keep us together and is so much more becoming than hate, wouldn’t you agree? They say it’s impossible to pinpoint the moment when love actually strikes, but we always know when it ends. I disagree entirely and believe that slogan to be totally ass about-face. Why should love even have an end? If it does, then was it even love in the first place? It’s easy to say those three little words in the heat of the moment but some folk seem to find it a lot harder meaning it. I guess ultimately everyone has their own take on love. Right now, I’m looking for it to bail my raggedy ass out. Figure it owes me that. Hate to be all Debbie Downer here, but I reckon it has its work cut out with this disfigured love match.

I mean, whatever possessed me to pit a dickhead and bitch together and expect anything less than a bloody massacre? It’s well documented fact that bitches despise dickheads and there’s not a great deal of love loss the other way either. What I’m proposing is both strongly advised against and considered highly unethical practice. If I succeed, then we’re talking a potential Nobel Prize and my face on the cover of Time Magazine. Should I fail, then I should be out in six years pending good behavior and my mug shot will be plastered across every lamppost from here to Mumbai. One way or another, once tonight’s combatants square up to one another and clench their knuckles, I’ll know whether or not my future will entail sharing a poky cell and rectum with a 6″7″ meathead named Regina (formerly Reginald). I hear they treat love crime very seriously in state penitentiary so be under no illusion that I’m not compromising my colon with this particular hook-up.

In keeping with the fight night theme, I have erected a ring for both prizefighters to parade within and it would appear that we are running at capacity. That’s my bail covered, if nothing else. However, given that the end goal is love here, it would be most unromantic of me not to populate the canvas with a handful of gentle persuaders that it conquers all. Alas, there wasn’t the space for a four-poster bed or even a swimming hammock, but how can love fail to blossom when there’s a kissing booth situated dead centre of the battleground? I tossed in a bucket or two of ruby-red rose petals too, just to lend a certain je ne sais pas to proceedings and have invited Jeffrey Osborne along to croon us through the opening exchanges. Indeed, he’s just finished cleaning his pipes and is now ready to serenade love’s lost dream through their grand entrances. As tonight’s master of ceremonies, it would both my privilege and honor to supply commentary. Take it away Jeffrey but don’t forget to bring that shit back or I’ll clip those wings and bust out the cattle prod.

 

At any rate, I guess we should commence with a little pre-match build-up. In the blue corner is our dickhead challenger and he’s certainly dressed for an occasion, albeit not necessarily this one. Sporting a customized baseball cap backed up with ten gallons of salty sailor spunk to gargle between rounds, spinning bow tie wired exclusively to his happy pheromones, hazmat suit, pair of size twenty-six clown shoes, and skin so pasty white that it makes the kid from Powder look like Sidney Poitier, he really is something of a fucking dickhead. One thing that could work to his advantage is his sense of humor as this is something that his opponent doesn’t possess. Expect him to laugh at his own foibles, openly endorse being the butt of any joke, and generally encourage polite heckling. That said, taking him lightly is strongly advised against as there’s only so much you can tug a dick before it feels the urge to start lobbing custard and he’s literally backed up to the milk teeth. Boasting a record that comprises no fights, no wins, no draws, yet bizarrely two losses; he’s the Knob with the Gob, the Prick with the Tick, the Sheesh in search of Quiche, the one, the only … DICKHEAD!

In the red corner, currently bleeding heavily from the vagina, is a woman who needs absolutely no introduction. Undefeated in thirty verbal slanging matches, she has been responsible for the demoralization of over three hundred potential date-rapists, slept with half the married men in her zip code, broken up more happy marriages than internet porn, and has a grand total of no kind words to say about anyone who isn’t her. Some call her a bitch, she prefers The Bitch or Ms. Bitch at any public functions. You can tell by the Cambric Bowler perched on her head that she means business and her ten-inch heels serve as a constant reminder of just why you really wouldn’t want to fuck with her. If there’s a chink in her armor, then that tight leather catsuit could result in terrible chafing once the heat gets cranked. But aside from that, this buxom bronzed beauty is pretty much impenetrable. Let’s hope our dickhead can manage to slip one in under her radar. Good luck with that son. She’s the Whore we Adore, the Slag we all Tag, the Cunt who’s all Shunt, the one, and mercifully only … BITCH!

Fuck this for a game of toy soldiers, I’m finding myself a safe distance just outside the splash zone to peep like Tom would. There’s no way I’m risking life and limb, when this entire charade is down to my well-meaning meddling. Should the realization dawn on them both at precisely the same moment, then I could be looking at a tag-team scenario and don’t fancy my chances against two such fearsome adversaries. Let’s not starve the bicep here, I’d imagine I could take the dickhead in a one-on-one without too much distress or embarrassment. As for the bitch, well I’ve eaten her type before for breakfast and, while traditionally that has resulted in explosive diarrhea by lunchtime and scurvy by supper, I reckon I’ve still got space for one more. But together they’re as potent a threat to national security as Trump and Twitter, never mind the jeopardy they pose to yours truly. If anyone needs me, I’ll be cowering behind Row J Seat 6, round about the same spot that it smells vaguely like chicken shit and turkey piss. Seconds out, round one.

So far, there’s not an awful lot to report I’m afraid. We appear to have arrived at one of those tense Mexican standoff situations as neither is prepared to cast the first stone and it’s all about sizing up their opponent. Actually, only the bitch seems to be doing her homework, the dickhead is far too busy getting distracted by the hot chick in Row J Seat 5 slicing aubergines on her smart phone. She’d better not blow my cover and I still expect that hand job once she has bettered her high score. The crowd is already growing restless as they paid to see a royal rumble, not some soulless stalemate with all the life of a 30th Anniversary Cocoon Reunion. Something has to give soon, one of them has to make a move, or else it’s curtains for me and matching cushion covers for our two love rivals.

It’s the most uneventful first round since The People vs. O.J. Simpson as they still hadn’t located the bastard at that point. If this goes on much longer, the boos will begin to ring out and this is only likely to confuse the dickhead and further infuriate the bitch. The upshot to all this is that it will then result in swift disembowelment of said dickhead and the crowd will have gotten exactly what they came for. So I guess everybody wins either way. Well, everybody without one beady eye, purple veins and hairy bollock ankles. If you ask me, I think they should both be deeply ashamed of themselves. They sell some pretty tasty nachos in the lobby you know; folk ain’t gonna stick around for another round of “you go first, no you go first”. We demand action or at least a fraction dagnabbit. 

[DING DING]

But what’s this? A change of tactics perhaps. As the bell chimes for round two, the bitch appears to be gearing up to break some ice. Judging by the look of mild disgust on your face and the fact that she just threw up a little in her clutch bag, I’d say it’s now well and truly sunken in just how pathetic a creature she’s observing. Remember folks, a dickhead’s best shot at securing a woman’s heart is to aim for sympathy and hope the roofie he slipped her is quick to take effect. This is looking promising, although I’m not altogether sure she’s preparing to offer her condolences. By my watch, I make it time to head ring-side for the up-do-the-minute scoop as it happens. Besides, I’m fed up of waiting around for this hand job. How long does a game of poxy Fruit Ninja take anyway?

“Well, well. Look what the cat spewed up and dragged in”

“Eh?”

“You heard me pale rider. The last time I saw skin that white, it had a toe tag on it. Come to think of it, you somehow smell worse than that guy and he’d been dead for 48 hours. What do you wash in? Ball sweat?”

“You’ve been spying on me, haven’t you?”

 

 

“Oh, heavens above. You really have. I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised, given the amount of flies buzzing around you”

“They like the salty sailor spunk”

“Excuse me”

“Got ten gallons of the stuff on tap. Wanna hit it?”

“No I do not and I could slap your face with something metal for even suggesting it you dreadful little man”

“But I just cleared the blockage”

“You take another half step and I’ll compact you into spam cretin”

“It’s supposed to be good for your skin, that’s all I’m saying”

“What do you know about skin? I’ve seen off-duty tampons with more color than you”

“I don’t get it”

“Of course you don’t get it. I highly doubt you get anything”

“Has anybody ever told you you’re mean?”

“Many times, yes. I prefer the term sharp shooting”

“So you think you’re better than me then?”

“Heavens no. I would never think such a thing. I know I’m better than you. Come to mention it, I took a lumpy dump in the latrine this morning and that had the edge on you also”

“Classy”

“Honey, I crap shit more classy than you, as we’ve already established. Now run along now, you’re starting to bore me”

“What gives you the right to sit up there on your pedestal, casting judgments on everyone around you?”

“Not everyone. Just you”

“Okay then, just me. Well, what gives you that right?”

“Well, I’d say that was obvious, wouldn’t you?”

“Don’t use fancy words, just tell me”

“What? Obvious? Fine, I have that right as I’m a ten and you’re barely even a four”

“So I’m three less than you, big whoosh. I bet I can hock a loogie further than you can”

“Hock a loogie? Is that your solitary claim to fame? That you can launch phlegm”

 

 

“I’ve got other talents you know”

“Like what?”

“Pull my finger”

“No I will not be pulling your finger”

“Go on. I promise you’ll like it”

“What I’d like right now is a number 47 bus to hit you at high-speed but we clearly don’t always get what we want”

“It’ll still be funny if you pull it now”

“Really? Still going on about that? Give me strength. Fine, which one should I pull?”

“The thumb”

“Why does that not surprise me? I’d imagine it’s directly wired to something more guttural than the other four”

“You’ll find out”

“No, I’ve changed my mind. My gag reflex couldn’t stomach any more of your odious stench and I’m fast running out of space in my clutch bag to vomit”

“Buzzkill”

“You’re a simple little man, aren’t you?”

“I amuse myself”

“Yes. I would imagine you do. If only the rest of the world were in on the joke”

“So what makes your shit stink any less then?”

“I’d imagine the fact that I don’t do it in my underwear then negate to change them for three days has something to do with it”

“Mine were clean on this morning”

“Then you may wish to switch fabric softener”

[DING DING]

 

This doesn’t bode at all well. I actually think I liked it better when they weren’t getting to know one another. Just as projected, the bitch is well ahead on points and it will take the greatest comeback since whatever Rocky they’re up to now for the dickhead to halt the slide. Alas, “pull my finger” is unlikely to earn him much headway here, or anywhere other than kindergarten, come to think of it. What a Muppet. I know one thing – another verbal mauling like that and the ref will step in and end the match. If only I could get to him, I’d slap him into next week, and rent a hologram for seven days. I mean, what woman in her right mind would be enticed by his pitiful patter? Pull my fucking finger. Jesus wept. Surely round three couldn’t be any more mortifying. I guess there’s only way we’ll know for sure. Seconds out.

“You’re still here then”

“As are you, I see. Listen, I reckon we may have gotten off on the wrong foot back there. What do we say we start again?”

“Like a recurring nightmare you mean?”

“I don’t follow”

“Never mind. Fine, tell me something about yourself that nobody else knows. Do you think you can manage that menial task?”

“Easy. I’ve got three testicles”

“Why did I ask?”

“No really. I’ve got two in the usual spots and another round the back. Here, see for yourself”

“I’m fairly certain that’s an untreated hemorrhoid”

“Oh! Is that good?”

“It is if you’re not planning to have a bowel movement any time soon. That thing looks rather angry. You really should get that checked, by the way”

“No time for that. I’ve got far more pressing matters at hand”

“Like what?”

“Like you pulling my finger”

“I think I might actually hate you”

“Don’t give me that. I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me”

“You mean the bitter contempt?”

“I don’t know what fancy pants name you call it but, where I come from, it’s called shameless flirting my lady”

“You’ve got me. Indeed, you had my heart the very moment you bragged about your ability to cough up a slimer baby”

“I knew that would impress you”

“So frightfully deluded. Would you be terribly put out if I were to karate chop you in your solar plexus?”

“What’s one of those?”

“Tell you what, I’ll give you a clue. It’s right about… HERE!”

 

 

“I feel funny”

“You poor thing. The canvas is there, should you wish to take a lie down. As a matter of fact, I insist you do”

“I’ll be alright in a minute. Just a little winded”

“Drop to your knees and lick my heels fuck boy”

“No really, I’m pretty much immune to pain. Well apart from these wretched migraines”

“You get them too? It’s funny, I too have had a real humdinger, ever since first laying eyes on you”

“Well would you look at that, we’ve found our first thing in common”

“Please don’t say that”

“I’m serious. Maybe we’re not all that different after all”

“Trust me, we’re different”

“But you’re barely know anything about me”

“Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

“I give up”

“Please do”

[DING DING]

 

Hell’s bells. This is an absolute bloodbath. I’m beginning to fear for my dickhead as he’s being decimated out there and I actually feel kind of bad for the poor guy. Granted, he’s a fair few short planks shy of a bundle, but he’s also utterly harmless to anyone other than himself and I find that strangely endearing. That viper-tongued bitch, on the other hand, well she can suck my lollipop and I hope all her teeth shatter in her face when she does. Where does she get off making him feel insignificant? What gives her the right to cast judgement without knowing all the facts? She may think she’s got him all figured out, and to be brutally honest, she probably has as I’ve read fortune cookies with more complexity. But I hate that she’s already come to her half-cocked conclusions. It’s really not at all becoming a trait, you know.

He couldn’t possibly endure another twelve rounds of this kind of mental cudgeling. I have to get a message to him fast before she grows tired of the sound of his faint heartbeat and rips it straight out of its cradle. If only I had a megaphone. Hold up, he carries one with him at all times and I think I can spot it over by his corner. No, that’s a ridiculous idea. I may as well place a flashing neon sign on my head that says “don’t kill him, kill me instead”. Think Keeper, think. How could I possibly hope to influence a dickhead like him? Sweet otter fleece, that’s it! The last time I checked, I was 33.3% dickhead myself. To truly know a dickhead, one must first learn to think like a dickhead, to act like one, make a fool of oneself like one. I shall embrace my inner dickhead and he will know precisely what needs to be done. Just so we’re clear, I’m about to have a conversation with myself and they don’t ordinarily turn out well.

“Come in, dickhead”

“This is dickhead. Copy that”

“So, you got any idea how we should proceed?”

“I know exactly how we should proceed. Here, pull my finger and you shall have your answer”

“Nng!!!”

Fuck’s sake. That was a complete waste of both time and precious juju. I should’ve known I wouldn’t get a solitary slather of sense out of him. Fucking dickhead. Meanwhile, round four is about to commence and I’m still no closer to finding myself a bona fide love match. The question is – what do I do now? Do I attempt to slink out of the auditorium unnoticed and book the first available flight to Helsinki? Or should I brave it out and pray that we suffer a blackout? No time for shitting or vacating the pot now; it looks like we’re about to venture once more into the fray. Seconds out. 

 

 

“Right then, where were we?” 

“Oh joy. I get to look at your sad little face again for three minutes”

“Of course, we were at the part where you say horrible things and generally act unpleasantly”

“There you go. Maybe you do have the capability to be taught, after all”

“Don’t think I don’t know you’re patronizing me”

“Will wonders ever cease? Have you been swatting up during our little break mister?”

“Look, I’m a dickhead. I get it. I say the wrong thing more often than not, do the wrong thing more often than that, and that appears to be my lot in life. But I do mean well, do possess feelings, real ones. And they can get hurt by people like you”

“Oh!”

“I’m sorry, just had to get that off my chest”

“That’s… quite alright. Give me a minute, will you?”

“Take all the time you need”

 

Well shiver me timbers and call me your matey, I didn’t see that ship ahoy. You could literally knock me down with a pubic hair right now. I may be mistaken here, but that’s how love first blossoms right? Granted, not traditionally after nine grueling minutes of one-way roasting, but that moment they just shared… it was dangerously close to being mildly touching, don’t you think? I’m not about to get carried away here as teeth in a basket time is still forecast as per tonight’s running order. But that was civil behavior from the bitch and not a result of any pre-programming on my part. As a wise man once said – “if I can change, and you can change, everybody can change!” although he had just taken approximately 300 blows to the temple so don’t go taking that as gospel. The fact remains however that things are now firmly on the incline and there are still sufficient seconds on the clock for love to make a rousing comeback.

“Excuse me, Mr. Dickhead”

“You rang ma’am”

“Whatever. Look, I’ve been thinking about what you said and maybe I have been a tad harsh with you”

“Is that right?”

“Don’t get too excited. I still think you’re a raging fucknut with little to no redeeming features. But I had no right being so unkind to you before and for that you have my apologies”

“Apology accepted. Don’t sweat it, I’ve got thick skin”

“I see that yes. Around the head especially”

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

“What can I say? I’m a bitch. Hurting feelings just so happens to be what I’m good at. I don’t set out to be intentionally nasty, that’s just how things pan out, more often than not. It’s like some kind of tick. And you have to admit, you are something of a sitting duck”

“Perhaps I am. But you may end up liking me when you get to know me”

“Can we settle on indifference? That’s a start, right?”

“There you go again with the flashy words”

“Let’s just say that I no longer feel quite so compelled to punch your face repeatedly until it caves in on itself”

“Glad to hear it. So anyway, have you checked out the kissing booth yet?”

“Is that what it is? How dreadfully inappropriate”

“Seems a shame just to waste it”

“That’s funny, I feel there would be far more shame involved in using it. For me, at least”

“Come on, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Currently my senses are working overtime simply humoring you”

“It’s fate. Don’t you think?”

“A cruel twist of it, yes. So let me get this straight. You wish me to join you in the kissing booth and struggle to keep the rising bile down long enough for you to plant one on me. Is that it?”

“I’ve been told I’m a good kisser”

“Really? By whom? Your great-grandmother? You can’t possibly expect me to believe that any woman not suffering from advanced dementia would choose to pucker up for you, surely?”

“You’re doing it again”

“I am, aren’t I? How can I ever make it up to you?”

“You can start by stepping into the kissing booth with me”

“Please allow me to rephrase my question. How can I ever make it up to you that doesn’t entail having to share a confined space together?”

“It could be fun, you know”

“Really? Only I’m failing to see where the fun part comes into play”

“Or we could just stay here and you could pull my finger”

“Lead the way”

 

I’m literally speechless. Never in my wildest imaginings did I expect her to actually agree to that. The only rational explanation is that he ground down her defenses to such a point that she could no longer differentiate yes from no. But I looked a gift horse in the mouth once and it went on to headbutt me and canter off with my bag of Kola Kubes. I guess it’s right what they say about love working in mysterious ways; never again will I doubt its power. More critically right now, it would appear that my work here is done. Granted, they may be some way from love’s young dream but, by some bizarre twist of fate and minor miracle, they’re getting there. Dare I say, I’m actually going to miss having them around the place. He may be a dickhead and she a bitch, but neither appear to mean as much harm or foul as I initially suspected. In which case, I should be hanging my head in shame right now for judging them unfairly. I pride myself on not falling into this trap but guess I’m just as culpable as the next man. That must make me part dickhead and part bitch. Heavens, what a sobering thought to process.

Never mind that baloney, I should be making some fresh tracks while the going is still fair to middling. Don’t want to get ahead of myself but I reckon tonight’s bout has raked in enough in ticket sales alone to fund my next pet project and pay off a fair wedge of my quarterly electricity bill to boot. So all things considered, I’d say that’s one for Team Triumph and a poke in the windpipe for The Also-Rans. Better yet, the chick from Row J Seat 5 has now diced her last dragon fruit, and I fully intend on inquiring as to whether I can take that hand job on-the-go. That said, it would be downright irresponsible of me not to check in on the happy couple before my big skedaddle. I wouldn’t dream of interrupting their first intimate moment together; but there are no laws that forbid a little harmless eavesdropping for the sake of furthering scientific research. Come on ears, let’s get wigging.

“Sweetheart?”

“Yes honey bunny?”

“I don’t suppose you happened to brush your teeth this morning, did you? Or indeed anytime in the past month?”

“I dunno”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“Does licking them count?”

“And I’m guessing you use salty sailor spunk as mouthwash, am I correct?”

“Ooh, hadn’t thought of that one. Much obliged sweet cheeks”

“Oh my God! What is that godawful… have you… did you just let one go?”

“Guilty as charged. Turns out it works if I pull my own finger too. What a bonus huh?”

“I hate you”

“You love it”

“Dickhead”

“Bitch”

Just to be clear, that’s foreplay right?

 

 

 

 

Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,

 

Richard Charles Stevens

aka

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

 

Copyright: Grueheads Films 2017