For one thing I usually prefer to know exactly when I'm going to be spat on, which is why I often hand homeless people wads of photo copies of cash, and then squat next to them till they realize their windfall is a lie. It's the only way I've really been able to make SURE most of the time I'm spat on I'm ready for it. I mean getting spat on is gross, why would you not want to be prepared for it?
Also he made me literally fork over the cash with a kitchen fork, he said he found it delightfully literal. Which I found frightfully extraneous. Which he found frivolously monotonous. Which I found fundamentally preposterous. Which he found fellopatially carnivorous. Which I found fancifully scarlopolous. And then we needed a full twenty-nine minutes with a dictionary to find out what the hell our emotional state really was, made all the harder because we both harbored emotions that did not yet exist, requiring a further seventeen minutes to define them...
Fellopatially - a state of friction highlighted by a fundamental freedom for farfetched craning of factions undefinable by anyone but feeble minded fellows of the future.
Scarlopolous - when you are born with Fallopian tubes on your face, and even though they were successfully removed you still feel self-conscious about the scaring.
Then we had a twelve minute argument over whether or not we'd gotten our definitions the wrong way around, which got so heated he ended up spitting in my face, leading to a forty-two minute discussion on whether or not that constituted a satisfactory delivery of services paid for, which it did NOT because I TOTALLY knew he was about to spit on me, and I'd specifically paid to NOT know. Although I did agree to pay a small fee for his time keeping skills which were excellent.
So why did I pay to be spat on randomly and micelaneoisly?
It's simple really, I'd read in the newspaper an editorial about a magazine article written in reply to a Sixty-minutes piece, referencing a murderer's love of a movie about a musician turned painter, who'd been inspired to change art careers after a chance encounter with a guru who did seminars to sell his book, about using memories to inspire thoughts about imaginations of scenarios to create arts that the people would talk about, leading to success and fame, that would turn into mentions in magazines and possibly leading to discussions hovering around comparisons to violinists and poets, when I suddenly had my eyes and ears drawn away from the page as the next eulogist at the funeral
I was at said the words 'survived by his girlfriend'.
'I want to survive!' I thought. So I did some research and found out that lots of people have tried these girlfriends, many of whom have not died, leading to a logical conclusion that survival is perhaps enhanced by access to one of these. Six months later with no luck acquiring one of these, despite many offers to purchase one at stores, and I saw an advertisement on a light pole saying 'want to be randomly and miscellaneously spat on?' And I thought 'a guy with a cool job like that is bound to have a daughter, and who could turn down a date with a guy who'd been spat on by her father?'
The spitting itself turned out to be interesting, he had a mouth full of baby spiders, now THAT was a surprise.
The girl replied to my date offer with 'um, my dad has spat on thousands of men, it's what he does for a living, so yeah, you're not special' but I didn't mind, she turned out to be in her 80s, I guess having a 108 year old father can do that. Also being alive for 80 plus years can lead to that.
I asked her what her secret was and she said 'I don't know, I've only ever been stabbed once?'
The point is I'm looking for a stab guy, anyone know anyone? The closest I've had is a homeless man who clawed a chunk of flesh from my right cheek with his long ungroomed nails, but I'm not sure it counts. Although some people think the mark left is Scarlopolous, so that's pretty sweet.