Why I hate Barnaby (Jones)

Tuesday, 14 August 2001

Barnaby’s name is not Jones. It’s not something I can repeat because, perhaps finally, the Law is there. And though I hate Barnaby I don’t hate him enough to let the cops find him. I do hate him enough to call him Barnaby Jones because I know how much he hates that. It’s easy to hate when someone makes stupid remarks about your name.

I hate Barnaby because I want to tell him about the skinny twat from back east that told me to get my story straight. I want to tell him about all the phony accents in the world not changing the fact that the limey tart is only kept on because the company wants to retain her husband and if they fire her, he might quit. I want to tell him about the chunky zit mottled girl in Seattle’s Best Coffee that said to me, “You don’t look like an Ashley,” when I got my coffee from her. I didn’t say, “You don’t look like a cunt. See how wrong we both were.”

I want to tell him that. I want to tell him that I was able to show restraint. I want to tell him that and perhaps get drunk and get into a fight with him so I won’t have to be restrained. I know he can take a punch or a kick or a quart of gin while I refuse to let him out of a small mountain resort swimming pool.

But I can’t tell him. Not because he’s dead, which is an interesting idea, but because he refuses to adopt a reliable ISP and I have no way to email him right now so we can laugh about the heftier cunt from back east who some years ago remarked to everyone who would listen that we were bisexual because neither of us would fuck her.

digg stumbleupon del.icio.us reddit Fark Technorati Faves