logo gringos ch. 10 ( revised )

CHAPTER 10 ( revised )

“Hey, John, do you know why you like big boobs?”
“I thought I liked big butts.”
“Well, yes, your freak of nature desire for large cellulite rippled buttocks is disturbing to any sane male, but I’ll admit the attraction is derivative.”
“So, what’s the answer to your socially awkward question inappropriately poised as our female acquaintances are mere yards away?”
“Hey, this is pretty darned appropriate given that our acquaintances directly have placed us in a dangerous position we so nonchalantly accept and respond to.  And a fun filled fact knows no time limits.  And don’t you think that our lives are pretty damn cool right now?  Here we are like this is a Quentin Tarrantino  film, the two dashing hero’s cracking wise as they face down imminent danger as if it were but an interlude to an interesting conversation?”
“Okay, now I get where your propensity to lighten dangerous situations with dialog comes from.”
“Natch.  The Q Man did more to redeem Hollywood than all the PBS nature documentaries put together ever did.”
“PBS films in Hollywood?”
“Hollywood as shorthand for filmmaking, my good fellow.  Now, pay attention.  Due to very long periods of infant helplessness and the long periods requiring human young to fully program their developing minds, humans need monogamous pair bonding.  Parental units must invest over a decade in each offspring, and in some cases that consists of up to half the lifetime of an adult.  Also, species survival necessitates a very social being outside the family unit.  Higher cognitive species are always very social, a lot of mental energy devoted to interaction of clan members.  In order to attract and keep a couple together, sex is year long rather than linked to ovulation.  In fact, female ovulation is rather well hidden from both genders, as if evolution was forcing this difference.

“In ape species, swelling of the genital and or buttocks area signals ovulation and stimulates the males.  So in humans, it is thought that a permanent ‘swelling’ is a permanent attraction.  As humans walk upright, the chest is a more logical area of attraction than the nether regions.  Some apes that spend inordinate amounts of time sitting have a swelling in the neck area.  Now, keep in mind that a permanent attraction to a mate is not all of it.  The reason males are attracted to larger breasts is that prior to the last few hundred years of abundance, the norm was periods of lack of food either from herd animals wandering out of reach or village granaries being depleted before the new crop came in. 

“The hips, butt and breasts are the female primary stores of fat for times of starvation.  Any larger sized female signaled reproductive advantage since the baby would have milk even if food became scarce for the mother.  So, big boobs is both a male stimulant for sex to continue a pair bond and a signal that her offspring would be the best.”

“Okay, but what about contrary examples?  The Chinese being attracted to feet-although I’ll admit that is bizarre- or the Flappers in the 20’s with near flat chests or the current starved Yuppie look?”

“Well, of course culture is going to give us exceptions.  Culture is a survival trait that individualizes behavior to fit local conditions.  The Chinese chose quantity over quality.  Vast numbers, with all but the one tenth of one percent in perpetual malnourishment or calorie deficit.  There was never enough fat to go around for fatter to be a common attraction.  And the modern infatuation with skinny women is a cultural trait, the economics of farm factories mean that starch is dirt cheap.  Poor people are fat from starch.  Rich people eat lean and healthy.  Skinny, obviously needing to be accompanied by other telltale signs of wealth, means higher reproductive success.  And breast augmentation shows that skinny WITH boobs is the best of both worlds.  As for the Flappers, I’d guess this was the first signs of the migration from farm to cities.  City living outside the ghetto being a healthier environment than an impoverished farm.  And skinny meant you could afford to heat your house with coal rather than just your body with food.  Just guessing on that one.  But carved statues from thirty thousand years ago show ginormous breasts, hips and butts.  Males have been attracted to boobs forever.  And women know it.  The exceptions have got to prove the rule.”

“Why did you bring all of this up now?  Although, granted, fascinating.”
“Of course you’ve noticed that Pam is well endowed.  Even Susan signals reproductive success if you ignore her after she gets up and tries to move around too much.  Surely if I’ve noted this, so have our friends over here.”

“Your ‘friends’ have an immediate hungry look which precludes sticking around long after conception to raise a family.”
“Which our female companions have undoubtedly noticed far quicker than you, being the target of such dangerous attraction.  Let’s face it, brother, male reproductive urges are rather straightforward.  With a brain that size, what do you expect?  We just want to rut.  It is the female who must expand most of the energy, biologically speaking, to keep the rutting confined to herself exclusively for the benefit of the raising of children.  Calorie-wise, fat storage in the upper torso and continual sexual availability are small prices to pay.  So, one must deal with males on this basis of DNA programmed mindless urges.  You can’t rationally discuss with them why killing you and taking the gals is a bad idea.  Only fear of losing the ability to reproduce is likely to work.”

To which, Randy took his rifle from his shoulder, chambered a round and shot the leading Wigger in the chest even as his target was lifting up his 9mm pistol to take aim himself.

*

Which, of course, facilitated  the other Wiggers from inaction and they too started jerking off rounds of underpowered handheld firearms, the girls squealing in fright and diving to the ground, John yelling something close to “Randy, you simple cocksucker” or some such banality, aforementioned Randy wearing an inappropriately timed grin as he manically  jacked more rounds into his rifle and fired into the mass of Wiggers mere scores of yards away, John trying to follow suite yet only at half speed and in general all the mayhem one would expect when reality intruded in the Hollywood script of Uber Cool Character Combat.  Of course, as our hero’s were by then more conversant in actual firearm conflict than their adversaries, and as the Lee-Enfield rifle had been designed for superior battlefield performance by allowing for twice the speed in loading a round into the chamber compared to the Mauser and double the magazine capacity for longer periods of shooting before needing to reload, and given the fact that rifles were being used against anemic close range pistols, it should surprise no one that while the boys should have once again emerged triumphant over the forces of evil and vanquished the modern Vandals, in fact what happened was nothing short of disastrous and one can guess that hubris had already set in and our team of intrepid hero’s had simply let the last few victories go to there head.  Not only did they NOT hit another single target but their antagonists both winged John AND took a pretty large chunk out of Randy’s wooden furniture which was a pretty mean accomplishment for a 9mm or whatever the other side was using and while Randy was squealing something about Robin Williams and his semi-automatic Italian battle rifle John was hitting him upside the head and yelling about a tactical withdrawal and how his right arm was hurting like a syphilitic wang, and so the guys had to untangle themselves from a firefight they weren’t experienced in, namely being retarded losers, and had to do everything but kick the girls in the ass to get them to stop acting like speedbumps and start acting like there was a two hour only sale on wrinkle cream at JC Penney’s and get a damn move on.  And if that wasn’t bizarre enough, as if a Hollywood script was in fact being followed, a couple of jokers looking of the Latino variety passed the crowd bumping assholes and elbows going toward their Wigger pursuers and engaged them in combat hence allowing the innocent and moronic-mainly Randy we can all agree- to escape from certain death.  Well, certain death from gunshot wounds because Big Butt was wheezing like an asthmatic in a hooka bar, Randy was hacking up mucus and other unmentionable lung parts just proving that bike riding isn’t a very good training regimen for a marathon and John looked like a ghost had not only passed over his grave but placed a grenade on it also.  And this was only after two blocks.   Once  everyone passed the point of needing an ambulance that wasn’t ever going to be arriving, John certainly tried to put a good face on his friends participation in the preceding affair,  but unfortunately for Randy, the females, rather than falling into his arms in submission and in gratitude, were decidedly NOT amused at being “saved” by their errant knight.

*

By the time Randy got done raising a clenched fist in righteous anger back the way they had come, amidst shouts of “that will learn ya to shoot at me, motherfucker!”, and slyly glancing at John and sincerely hoping THAT unfortunate mother fucker wouldn‘t die on him which he‘d NEVER live down, they had gotten quite a distance away, even at a waddling gait as befitted a lass of Susan’s girth.  And apparently trailing a long list of girlishly appropriate obscenities at the uncouth and violent nature of Randy himself.  John trailed an approved distance away, traitorously making excuses for himself and damning Randy as enthusiastically as his new companions, just going to prove that his earlier attempts at making the peace were certainly NOT heartfelt and implied his bestest buddy had absolutely no moral issue with throwing Randy under the bus.  Randy threw a glare of his own and went to poke around at the apartment he thought the Wiggers came from.  Let that simple fuck John kiss the gals asses.  By the time he was done with the ampleness of Susan’s backside it would be dark and Randy would hopefully have found himself drugs ( for barter, of course.  He had little desire to lose his teeth to crack since his foreseeable future had a LOT of tough wheat bread eating ), guns and ammo and whatever other non-electric treasures his perhaps vanquished foe-even if he hadn’t done the vanquishing and who WERE those masked men, Tonto?- had possessed.  He wasn’t sure if these guys had been smart enough to already fight for food.  Hopefully they had lived on more than just Taco Bell take out and AM/PM microwave burrito’s ( okay, there were no such convenience stores in Elko, having originated in California-he assumed, anyway- and barely made it over the Sierra mountains to the edge of western Nevada, but every Habeeb store had microwave burritos.  Alas, few could copy the example of the Super Big Gulp of AM/PM, the memories of childhood mass sugar consumption through Mountain Dew soda bringing a sad but happy memory.  He wondered why few used the cheap corn syrup magnet to attract customers like the original store.  Never a sugar consumer of more than the average American, he knew he would miss the opportunity to do so just because it was no longer an option ).

*

He wondered if he had more than a single five pound sack of sugar in storage.  Okay, something like four pounds and fifteen and three quarters ounces IF none had dribbled out between the poorly glued seams because at one time long ago he had tried to start drinking his coffee with sugar thinking it would be a shortcut in breakfast calories and save him time the few months he worked in the mornings but alas, coffee black and strong and boiling hot ( which is to say, NOT how McDonalds prepares it just because some skeevy twat “accidentally” tried to give herself a hot coffee douche on her way to collect at the Lawyer Lottery ) is how the elixir of the Gods should be consumed and not lukeasswarm like Mickey’s, and not all gayed up like Starbucks with frothy milk and fake sugar ( okay, AM/PM used fake sugar in their Big Gulps, but it wasn’t gay fake sugar, defined as wimpy chemicals as opposed to a real he-man type of sugar that caused real diseases like diabetes which caused limbs to fall off and shit unlike chemicals which caused rectal cancer which was by definition gay because with all that unnatural stretching and Entrance Rather Than Exit movement you can be sure that if the faggot didn’t die from Government Approved And Tested AIDS he was going to be on the short list for something nasty like rectal cancer ) and not even with regular table granulated sugar because by gum Americans were NOT like those tea suckling Brits which, come on, needed sugar and all the other help they could get to slurp down mildly colored mop water and the only reason we had been drinking the slop prior to the Revolution was because all those Gott Damn Yankee scum were Loyalist Blue Blood Assholes, like George Washington who gave the South a bad name by living there but was probably a Carpetbagger there for the Black gash for all Randy knew, ( although there were tidal area Brit approved slave owners who knew what side of their scone was buttered and then there was the hill folk of Celtic decent not slave owning and not Brit approved and you can guess which group of rich pompous assholes George belonged to, the tea drinking former Redcoat so just as there are mostly all bad Yankees there were also both mostly good Southerners and some bad ones like, need it be repeated, Washington ) and were emulating their hero’s like Hollywood celebrities fastening upon the bloody rectum of any Socialist politician ( except Tom Selleck and a few others like Chong from Cheech And Chong ) they endorse with limp wrist conviction.  Whereupon Randy did in fact come across an actual can of Mountain Dew, AND the freezer still had most of its ice trays full of only partially thawed cubes.  Which just proved the Wiggers couldn’t have lived here because those are not the type whom keeping ice ready to go at all times is a priority.  Randy wondered whose apartment he was ransacking, and why they weren’t here.  And then came to the realization of who would keep ice trays full and that was an alcoholic ( okay, granted, also someone who drank a lot of soda, but Randy needed a win here ) so searching closets and under mattresses for rifles was probably not going to do him much good but a great place to secure treasure was to search out bottle hibernating areas.

*

Well, needless to say, by both rooting around for some time for possible trade goods, long enough until a can of soda emerged, and then the long preparation time incumbent in finding a cleaner glass as he simply didn’t know the owners and while he knew they weren’t Wiggers for all he knew they were rectal cancer gays, followed by a search for liquor which included a search for a martini shaker because if you want a really cold soda you shake the bitch with ice and then get rid of the cubes before it diluted your sugary drink ( which, granted, was surmised by Randy having little basis in scientific testing since he didn’t have an abundance of ice out beyond the grid ), followed by a more frantic search when no alcoholic beverages could be found THEN finally moving on to slowly drinking the ice cold soda, in a glass without first being shaken which come to think of it might have exploded from the carbonation, relishing it as it might be the last cold soda in warm weather as indeed his last barbequed meat was enjoyed although not as slowly but more in a gluttonous fashion, why after all that it had gotten on in time and suddenly Randy realized that he could have in fact allowed his friend, his friends ball and chain and possibly his future wife all to go missing.  Which had definitely not really been in the plan, if indeed a plan is what any thought process of his could be called at that preceding juncture in time.  Randy of course swilled the last of the soda so as not to waste, figured a quick spot of urination in the relative safety of this hovel was preferable to holding it until later when once again same damn fool would be shooting at him and or hopefully them if he succeeded in reuniting with his potential new world order clan, and so in a fit of contrariness began to piss on the drapes of the living room, congratulating himself on doing his part in preventing this part of town from burning down like most of the rest.  Done forevermore with this domicile, he gracefully exited the building after a short furtive glance about. 

*

Now, Elko was never really a very big town, given its economic importance, and it certainly was much smaller when one now dismissed any charred and destroyed areas, but Randy was double dog dry dicked if he could find hide nor hair of his group during the next hour or so.  And let’s face it, rifle at the ready and scurrying about at an extra brisk walk was getting exhausting.  Plus, you had to be cautious about every face you saw.  Elko was small by most other standards, but it was also almost equal in population to its surrounding county which itself was as big as some smaller eastern states.  There were still a LOT of faces around, and while Randy had always railed against the predominance of Thrice Cursed California Import Yuppie Scum in town, and we all know most vile whore hounds of said type are universally ignorant and unarmed, he was seeing a crap ton of firearms being brandied about, a situation he would not have associated with the usual desire of the majority of the population to discount any disaster as anything other than short lived and easily manageable by such luminaries as Bush The Scrub and other short bus passengers.  So after enough time to convince himself he had admirably performed his duty and before his anxiety level could ratchet up to the point of a spike in blood pressure followed by the soft thud of his heart exploding, muffled by his now shredded rib cage, he decided Fuck These Mother Fuckers And How Could Such A Fat Bitch Waddle Away So Damn Quick and left to their equipment stash, determined to wait for the reuniting group in a more mellow almost uncrowned area. 

*

And quickly, almost as quickly as John and his bitches maliciously marooned Randy, Randy who had only been trying to help by all the gods, boredom sitting at the river bank waiting for someone to show up grew almost as unbearable as the previous Stranger Danger Fear And Loathing.  Good God Bouncing Down The Road Paved With Good Intentions On A Pogo Stick, watching birds sing and toxic smoke waft by was getting decidedly yawn inspiring.  Sure, Randy could do this all day long standing on his head with a cup of beer perched on his ass if he was back home because home was safe and Bush The Dumbest Dog Ever was pretty wildly entertaining if he was doing something besides sleeping or “accidentally” letting rancid flatulence seep out of the poor abused bunghole he had spent hours that day licking, alternating with his testicles because, hey, that at least felt good but the only discernable reason Randy could conceive of for Bush licking his asshole was so that afterwards he could lovingly lick Randy’s face and make no damn mistake when you are low dog in the pack that was about the only revenge you could safely deliver in a passive aggressive manner and Randy wasn’t fooled for a second.  Plus, at home, your ass got a cramp you could get up and do something.  Pull some grass ( since the two seasons here were Christmas and Fire, always good to be clearing combustibles back ) or read a book or dig a bit more on the probably never to be completed combination rain catchment tank storage area and spiffy Desert Rat Escape Pod ( okay, sure, he already had one.  Maybe just call it the Guest Hovel ).  Here, what was he doing besides trying to stay awake and alert?  How many friggin hours was he going to wait here?  Wait long enough for John to limp in all lethargic and weak, just so he could pass out a hundred yards down the road.  Inconsiderate whore.  Barely a scratch!  He’d had bigger wounds picking pimples on his ass.  Hey, you try digging out that ingrown hair, not being able to see what the hell you were doing.  Thing festered up like a black preacher at a police beat down of a brother.  Luckily vinegar killed the germs, he hadn’t wanted to get that close to sensitive areas with the bleach.  Damned if he was going to pay a damn McDoctor serious money for something simple he could self medicate and LORD sweet merciful Jesus think of all the really nasty germs lurking in a place like that.  Remember Eddie Murphy?  “The new AIDS, you just stick your dick in there and it explodes”.  That crap got started at a doctors office you can bet your last jelly donut.

*

Christ, he’d been here awhile.  Looks about later afternoon by the sun.  He was going to be the nicest bastard in the universe and leave his bike here, leave both so one of the girls could come back with John if he needed assistance.  Screw waiting any longer.  The time he’d waited already he could have walked over the damn summit already.  Something was up and he wasn’t doing any good here.  And look-ee here, he was even going to leave the ingrate fucker a note so John wouldn’t worry like he’d made poor Randy.  He should be getting a prize or something here.  Well, of course no paper.  Who brings paper with them to the Apocalypse?  Randy grabbed a few handful of pebbles and rocks and wrote out HOME right next to the bike wheel so there was a better chance of seeing it rather than walking on it.  He grabbed a container of water and hefted his rifle and started the four hour walk home.  If John never showed back up, he just solved most of his food issues.  Still had to work on that whole Repopulate The World issue though.

END CHAPTER

END BOOK

 

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