SECOND RATE REJUVENATION
At a pharmaceutical company cocktail party, invited guests are treated to top shelf liquor, passed hors d’oeuvres, and a vivid Power Point presentation of a brand new model of laser wand that can be inserted into dry vaginas to induce self-lubrication once again.
“The rejuvenated vagina will also be tightened significantly,” I overhear the product representative say before encouraging everyone to take a closer look at the wand she has set up “strictly for external demonstration purposes only.”
When a server suggests that I ask if the laser wand will help rejuvenate my used up man cunt, I reply that it would be more helpful if it can tighten his own gaping mouth hole, which is constantly flapping due to the immense bullshit he is prone to uttering, and slack from the large quantities of big black dicks he is always putting in there.
I don’t think anymore about rejuvenation anymore until a few nights later.
An elderly gentleman falls out of his chair and lies convulsing on the floor behind me just as I start Georgia on my Mind.
Diners can stare, servers and managers can mill around in concern, but I have to keep with decorum by looking forward, so I continue to play as the paramedics arrive, wondering all the while if the man is having a heart attack, a seizure, a stroke, a choking situation, or is just simply drunk.
It is assessed that the man can be cleared to walk out to the ambulance with assistance and I hear the first few shuffles of feet, followed by the raspy cough of the patient demanding, “to speak to him … I have to speak to him now! Now … please!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him directing his path of motion towards me, where I sit at the piano halfway between the dining room and the door.
A paramedic is supporting his frail body but he wrenches himself free and
grabs onto the edge of the instrument.
I see and smell a dinner jacket covered with vomit.
He leans into my ear.
He whispers, “You’re a second rate pianist.”
The paramedic pulls him back into finishing the rest of his slow, painful journey out of the restaurant and onto the emergency room, as I begin to gag.
The lingering smell of partially digested beef wellington and the sting of purely wounded indignation are making my lips tighten.
More tight and rejuvenated than any laser wand could ever accomplish.