Spanners who say it be because of the moon are full of shite, me bye. Oh, you painted a Lon Chaney miniature when in First Year, did you? Well, whoop dee do. Ah, here, you can go and bullocks! Sure, look—John Landis and Rick Baker got the transformation mostly right and deserved that Oscar, they did. And the cutaway to Mickey Mouse? Pure feckin’ genius. Because that be the ugly truth of this condition: its absurdity. ‘Tis myself will be tellin’ you, skeletal reconfiguration hurts—something effin’ and blindin’ brutal. And sure enough, if you jine some cunt behind Brigid’s Cross when he goes to take a piss, and you sink your canines into his esophagus, ‘tis tragic, it is. Foine! But no one ever mentions how many trousers I banjax. Or the fact I get meat sweats with only vague, fugue-state recollections of havin’ doined. On me heart, a dog is man’s best friend only until the moment he eviscerates dat man. Then any lovin’ bond sails right out the window, don’t you know, and it be a wee bit of growlin’ and a whole lot of high-pitched screamin’. Dog-eat-dog world, my arse. Oh, and dat’s another thing. You might not have a ton of sympathy on account of me being a crazed, cannibalistic serial killer—which, truth be told, I am—but did you know it is equally true about the sniffin’ of arseholes? Seriously, beyond compulsive, it is! So just be grateful your sense of smell is so shite—because the world be full of buds, but most of ‘em ain’t roses, if you see me pint. And while I be on the subject of sense (or scents)—Huh? See what I did there, lad? Don’t tell me I’m a mindless, ravenous beast! Do you really suppose I go around randomly stalking and pouncin’ on the innocent? I’m a dog, the Dear knows, not a cat! I’ve been acquainted with every one of me so-called “victims,” and each of them gobshites had it comin’, they did. You don’t think so? Grand. I shall elucidate: One pox wrote defiantly when he meant definitely; another bought his groceries at the pound shop—The. Pound. Shop. Then there’s the twat who stuck his fingers in the pickle jar; a college mate who kept battries in the freezer; an eejit who had a foine toime wearin’ a foam finger when watching football at home; the wagon, fair though she was, who never liked or RT anything on her feed; the langer who was always faffin’ about, tossin’ Supermac wrappers into ditches, leavin’ half-finished cans of Guinness around the flat, and spittin’ his toothpaste in the kitchen sink. Good lord! The humanity! I don’t give a tinker’s damn about any of them, do I! Ah, but listen to me givin’ out. Tell you what—next round’s on me. Call it a little “hair of the dog that bit you.” Huh? Nah, I’m just coddin’ ya, me bye. Fair it is.
Gina Marie Bernard
Gina Marie Bernard is a heavily tattooed transgender woman, retired roller derby vixen, and full-time English teacher. Her daughters, Maddie and Parker, share her heart. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, and the Pushcart. She is pursuing an MFA at the University of Arkansas, Monticello.
Twitter: @vixen1724Instagram: wicked_vixen1969Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/gina.marie.bernardWeb: ginamariebernard.squarespace.com
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