October 15, 2010 | Walking Wishbone

So tonight I'm walking Wishbone, and I pass the Mexican fish joint, and out of the blue this short little arsehole joins me because he says he "remembers my dog." So I'm trying not to look him directly in the eye, because then he'll think I wanna fuck him, which I don't because a.) he's short and b.) he ain't paying me (I only fuck short blokes if they're paying me.) So I'm walking along, trying to keep my focus on the sidewalk ahead of me while simultaneously trying to keep one eye on the arsehole, making sure he ain't pulling out a knife or nothing, when he says, "You never called me. I gave you my number and everything." And I suddenly I realize I ran into this bloke three weeks ago. He hit on me while Wishbone was pissing on a tree. He was loaded then, and I was pretty sure he was loaded now, because he reeked of beer...not that I'm judging...I've had plenty of drunk walks in the middle of the night myself, but I really wasn't in the mood this evening. He keeps on me, saying how I never called him,  so I say, "Look mate, ya never gave me yer fuckin' number so don't go guilt trippin' me...I'm just tryin' to walk my fuckin' dog, right?" And I keep trucking along at quite a clip, hoping he'll trip and fall so I can outwalk him...but no such luck--he keeps up with me, and says, "I did so give you my number...how you 'bout to argue with me?" (By the way, he was a Mexican, and he was talking in that Mexican way that gangsters talk on CSI or whatever) and I say, "Look Mate, I ain't arguin'...I'm tellin' ya straight out ya never gave me your fuckin' number, so don't accuse me of not callin' you. I can't call a person whose number I never got." And he laughs all drunk-like and insists I'm wrong because he remembers very clearly giving me his number. Here's the thing--I'm absolutely one hundred percent fucking POSITIVE this motherfucker did NOT give me his number. He has no bloody idea what that fuck he's talking about. So I ask him how much he's had to drink tonight, because he's clearly intoxicated, and he says, "Oh, now you gonna ask me that...see...but like...I worked in a bar before so you can't compare how much I had to drink with like, how much the average person drinks...'cause like...I react different." And I say, "Look, I ain't gonna compare shit...I'm just askin' a simple question: how much you had to drink tonight?" And he says, "Like I said...I work in a bar so it's like...different." And I say "I don't give a fuck if you work in the bloody Corona factory; I'm asking you how much you had to drink tonight?" And he replies, "A case of beer." And I say, "A case of beer. A case of bloody beer. That's twenty-four fuckin' beers." And he nods and says, "I know it is." So I say "All right, you're the bloke who swilled down twenty-four fuckin' beers tonight, and I'm the bird who ain't had shit to drink since July, so let's be honest with ourselves about who's the more reliable source concerning who did or did not give out a number three weeks ago. 'Cause you clearly have no fuckin' idea what the fuck you're talkin' about, so don't bitch to me about how bullshit it is that I didn't call you when I never had yer fuckin' number to begin with." Long story short, he walks with me the entire forty-five minutes of my walk with Wishbone, blabbing the entire time about how beautiful I am, and how he ain't no 'typical LA guy'--like that's supposed to be comforting. I try to lose him around the corner from my place; I don't want him walking me to my fucking door. So I tell him I gotta turn right when it's clear he's going straight. And he says, "Well, if I give you my number--AGAIN--are you gonna call me or what?" I look him straight in the eye and say, "No. I ain't gonna fuckin' call you." And he looks back at me, like a drowned brown drunk bunny-rabbit, his beady eyes swimming around in his sorta-cute-sorta-pathetic face, and says, "Well thank you for your honesty." And I say, "Fuck off mate." And I turn my corner with Wish and head home, checking over my shoulder the entire time to make sure he ain't sneaking up on me with a broken bottle to smash my face and rape me in the ass, or whatever it is that short drunk Mexican Marines do when they've been turned down. Yeah, he was a Marine. Which proably means he could have beat the shit outta me, short or not, which is why I think I should start carrying Mace with me on these midnight walks with Wishbone.