— Fiction —

When You Said, “Insensitive Prick,” Were You Talking to Me?

I’m sorry about that. I was all the way over here and not paying attention. You weren’t referring to me, were you? I cannot see how you could possibly think that.

Baby, we’ve been through so much together. Remember that time that I picked up your mother from the airport and brought her to our home? Sure, I went to the casino for a couple of hours in between but I split all of my winnings with her and treated her to any beer or well drink she wanted at the strip club. What’s more sensitive than paying for a woman’s alcoholic beverages? Not much, according to Dear Abby. If you’ll check column #1224, the letter signed “Vindicated in Vegas” will prove to you that Dear Abby is on my side here. I am not insensitive.

Also, remember when I was on the set of my movie? When we had the wrap party, didn’t I invite you to come and spend as much time as you wanted hobnobbing with the stars? Sure, you weren’t allowed to actually come into the party, merely peer through the chain-link fence, but wasn’t the glimpse that you caught of Harrison Ford worth it? And when the studio’s security tried to drag you away from the fence, who told them to allow you to stay there? It was me, wasn’t it? Would an insensitive prick do that? I don’t think that he would.

How about the time that I went on tour with your favorite band? You remember when I went on tour with KISS? Of course you do. Who was it that would call you from the hotels to allow you to speak on the phone with Ace, Gene, Paul, and Peter, while I was busy with some of the groupies that were in the room? Who was it that refrained from having intercourse with those groupies, allowing only for sexual acts that lead up to intercourse? Who was it that videotaped that Cambodian she-male giving Ace Frehley a Cleveland Steamer? Would you even have that tape as the centerpiece of your shrine to KISS if it weren’t for this “insensitive prick”?

I think you should rethink your words. Because sometimes, words hurt more than any physical blow that you could deal me. Sure, I left you waiting at the hospital after you gave birth to our child while I was at the Kid Rock concert, but didn’t I bring you and our son T-shirts? Sure, I stuffed my face at the Sizzler while you had to sit idly by watching me eat because you were due for a colonoscopy the next day and weren’t allowed to consume anything for 24 hours prior, but didn’t I save you part of a baked potato to eat when the procedure was done? Sure, it took me four hours to pick up your medicine from the drugstore when you had the scarlet fever, but didn’t I bring you back a scratch-off lotto ticket in addition to the aforementioned medicine? If these are the acts of an “insensitive prick,” I’d love to see your definition of sensitive.

Stupid bitch.