Warning: The language is not work safe. If you're offended by foul language, skip this thread. These are crude.

I did a series of six or seven "conversations" on another site. They started as nothing more than a gag, like Frank Saxon's Last Call. Inside jokes taken to an extreme or just something to entertain myself on a boring afternoon. People liked them, so from time to time I'd do another. Haven't done one in a long while. Anyway, thought maybe some o' you folks would get a kick out of some, so I'll post a few.

I don't post them here in the order they were written, but rather at random depending on my mood.

Here goes ...

VOL. 1: INVITED FOR DINNER

MAN WITH GLASSES: I swear, if I don’t get this damn job I’m done. You understand? Done. With a big ass D at the front.

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: I don’t know why you worry, not having a job isn’t the end of the world. Look at me. I haven’t had a job for three years and I’m doing fine.

MAN WITH GLASSES: Yeah, fucking look at you. You’ve got a plaid skirt on, knee-high socks and legs a mile long. Big surprise that you don’t need to hold a job there.

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: What’s that supposed to mean?

MAN WITH GLASSES: I gotta lay this out for you? It means you’ve got men buying you dinner every goddamn night of the week just to get a sniff of your pussy, that’s what it means.

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: [shocked] Jesus! What gives you the nerve!?

FAT GUY: He’s, ummm … he’s right, though. I’d buy you dinner for … you know. Some of that.

MAN WITH GLASSES: See? He’s already taking out his wallet.

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: I can’t believe this shit. Fuck both of you!

FAT GUY: Do I need to buy you dinner first? [laughs]

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: You know what? You’re a pig. Both of you are pigs. Dirty fucking pigs. The both of you pigs can fuck each other for all I care.

MAN WITH GLASSES: Pigs? Shit, honey, we’re just men doing what we’re hard-wired to do, and you damn well know it. Catch a sniff of some tail and we come running along like good little pets just hoping to get close to what you’ve got. You women, you’re the dog. We’re just the tails, wagging and wagging and wagging, happy as long as we’re close to the ass. As if you don’t know that you can wag men all fucking day long. You’re not fooling anyone with that dumb act.

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: Yeah, whatever. I don’t do any “act”, thanks.

MAN WITH GLASSES: The hell you don’t. Little schoolgirl skirt, batting your eyes, giggling like you’re 12. You know damn well that most men will stop thinking the moment you make eye contact with them. Fucking cross your legs and smooth your pleats. It all goes to their dick from there. Every fucking decision they make from that point forward is made with the dick. That’s where they think. You know it. And you fucking toy with it.

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: You’re being a real asshole, you know that? A real fucking asshole.

FAT GUY: But he’s right, though.

MAN WITH GLASSES: It’s true. I am.

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: The hell you are! Both of you guys are sexists. I like how this looks on me, and it feels nice to wear. A woman can’t wear something she thinks is comfortable? That makers her a whore?

MAN WITH GLASSES: Yeah, like you think that’s comfortable. Your cooch is practically hanging out. I can see the bottom of your ass cheeks, for Christ’s sake. I’m glad I can see them, but fuck! You telling me that’s comfortable? The hell it is. I got comfort. Slacks. Cotton. They feel nice. Don’t constrict the balls. You? You got fabric hanging around your waist and an “open invitation” sign between your legs. Don’t fucking talk to me about comfortable.

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: [fuming] What the hell? Fuck you! Why the fuck am I even friends with you? I don’t need to tolerate this shit from you.

FAT GUY: It’s a good question, though. Why are you friends with us?

MAN WITH GLASSES: Yeah. We don’t have money and you never made a play for us or anything. So? Why us?

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: A play? For you? Holy shit, don’t make me laugh.

FAT GUY: It was a serious question.

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: And it was a serious answer.

FAT GUY: Damn. That’s mean.

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: But true. Look at you! Your shirt is stained and is too small. It has a hole in it. You’re fat. Not just heavy, but fat. Your hair is a mess. If a guy can’t at least take care of himself, what makes me think he will take care of me? You think a woman doesn’t think of these things? And you’re pretty ugly, too. Plus I bet your cock stinks, that sweet, musky smell dirty cocks get on hot days. I wouldn’t put my face anywhere near that thing.

FAT GUY: [stunned] I … jeez. I mean, that’s kind of fucked up.

MAN WITH GLASSES: Why do you need to be so hard on him?

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: Fuck him. He called me as slut!

MAN WITH GLASSES: That’s not what he said.

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: It was damn well close enough.

FAT GUY: Don’t sweat it, man. She’s right. Look at me. I’m fat. And disgusting. And poor. I could never dream of sleeping with a woman like her. At best I can masturbate to the fantasy. And believe me, I have. Many times. Hell, right now I’m trying to burn the image of her in that skirt into my brain so I can call it up later tonight and use it to my advantage. While she’s out bending over for an order of mozzarella sticks and you’re wondering whether you should sleep with your wife or beat off, I will be spurting a load all over her if my fantasies have anything to say about it.

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: [looks sick] That’s so disgusting.

FAT GUY: What, you don’t let guys come on you?

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: Totally. Disgusting.

FAT GUY: Just answer the question.

MAN WITH GLASSES: Yeah, answer the question. Now that he mentions it, I wanna know, too. You let the man juice get on you? Spurt spurt, you know? I bet it’s gross.

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: I can’t even believe we’re talking about this.

MAN WITH GLASSES: We’re talking about it. You’re not.

FAT GUY: Yeah, so fess up. I know they do, I just want to hear you say it.

MAN WITH GLASSES: Yeah, say it.

FAT GUY: Go on, be honest. Just say it.

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: You want me to say it!? Fine, I’ll say it! YES, I LET GUYS COME ON ME!! You happy now? You fucking happy? Does it make your day to know that they get that disgusting shit all over my face or back or whatever, and I have to sit there and pretend I like it even though it’s the most humiliating and degrading thing ever? Does that make you happy? Does it make your miserable fucking little day?

FAT GUY: [shrugs] A little.

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: Fuck you!

FAT GUY: I may be fat, but I don’t let guys come on me.

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: MOTHER FUCK YOU!!!

MAN WITH GLASSES: Hey, hey, hey, settle down. You started this conversation.

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: The hell I did. You’re the one that accused me of sleeping with guys just to get them to buy me dinner.

MAN WITH GLASSES: And you don’t?

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: No. It’s not that simple.

MAN WITH GLASSES: Sure looks that way from where I’m sitting.

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: Yeah, if you’re an idiot.

MAN WITH GLASSES: [soothing voice] Look, how about I buy you dinner to make up for what we said? As a friend. Come on, don’t give me a look … I’m serious. I want to make it up to you with dinner.

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: Yeah?

MAN WITH GLASSES: Yeah.

WOMAN IN PLAID SKIRT: Okay. Okay, yeah, that would be nice.

MAN WITH GLASSES: You’re gonna let me come on you afterwards, right?

FIN

Nice punchline. I liked it.

You got me to read the whole thing, which is pretty impressive.

This reminds me of the porno screenplay I wrote. Maybe I should post it.

I'm pretty sure this is by far the longest of the batch. The others are much shorter. Once I got into the back-and-forth here, I wasn't really sure where it was going, so the characters just kept talking until an end presented itself.

VOL. 2: SENDING OUT POSTCARDS

LOVING WIFE: Did you see the mail today?

BAFFLED HUSBAND: No, why?

LOVING WIFE: Oh, nothing. Just, you know, you got a postcard from some fucking whore. When did you start cheating on my and why shouldn’t I cut your goddamn cock off right the fuck now?

BAFFLED HUSBAND: Whoa! What? I’m not cheating on you. What is this all about?

LOVING WIFE: You want to know what this is all about?

BAFFLED HUSBAND: Yes. What is this all about?

LOVING WIFE: It’s about this! [produces postcard]

BAFFLED HUSBAND: [shrugs] It’s a postcard.

LOVING WIFE: A postcard.

BAFFLED HUSBAND: A postcard. … And?

LOVING WIFE: Why the fuck are you fucking getting fucking postcards from random whores in the Caribbean? Who have you been fucking and why shouldn’t I cut out her cunt and mount it on the wall in the garage?

BAFFLED HUSBAND: Wow, hon, take it easy. It’s not a big deal, I can explain.

LOVING WIFE: Then you’d better start explaining now before I get the nail gun and nail your fucking legs together.

BAFFLED HUSBAND: This isn’t about cheating or anything like that. The card is from Buzzsaw Baldwin. She’s a woman from the Internet, someone on this message board I post to.

LOVING WIFE: So you find your whores from one of those sex chat rooms, huh? And why shouldn’t I force razors down your throat for this?

BAFFLED HUSBAND: She’s not a whore, and it’s not a sex chat room, it’s a DVD message board.

LOVING WIFE: You’re buying child porn DVDs?

BAFFLED HUSBAND: NO! No, I’m talking about NORMAL DVDs with other NORMAL people. There are a bunch of us on the site. She said she’d send some postcards to people. I like postcards and thought it would be cool to get one from her, and said she should send one to me.

LOVING WIFE: So this is just about a postcard?

BAFFLED HUSBAND: It’s just about a postcard.

LOVING WIFE: Well, that sounds innocent enough.

BAFFLED HUSBAND: It is.

LOVING WIFE: Is it?

BAFFLED HUSBAND: It is.

LOVING WIFE: So … did you eat her pussy?

BAFFLED HUSBAND: WHAT!?!?

LOVING WIFE: I don’t think I could have been more clear. Did. You. Eat. Her. Pussy?

BAFFLED HUSBAND: What’s gotten into you? It’s just a postcard!

LOVING WIFE: Answer the fucking question about eating her pussy or I swear I will put a power drill in your ass and mine your colon.

BAFFLED HUSBAND: No, I did not eat her pussy!

LOVING WIFE: Well there’s a surprise. You never eat mine, either.

BAFFLED HUSBAND: I - I don’t understand this. I don’t understand this at ALL.

LOVING WIFE: Shut the fuck up, you cheating bastard. Don’t talk. I’m thinking about how I am going to handle this.

BAFFLED HUSBAND: Handle what?

LOVING WIFE: Isn’t it obvious? You can’t have testicles anymore.

BAFFLED HUSBAND: [covers crotch][nervous] What the heck!? Don’t you think you’re overreacting?

LOVING WIFE: Oh, I’m overreacting now, am I? I’m some crazy wife? I’m batshit insane? Is that it? I’m a crazy batshit insane wife!?

BAFFLED HUSBAND: Honey, that’s not what I’m saying.

LOVING WIFE: Then what are you saying?

BAFFLED HUSBAND: I’m saying that this is just a postcard from a woman I’ve never even met, just a fun little thing and nothing more. I don’t even know what Buzzsaw looks like!

LOVING WIFE: But you’ll take a postcard from her?

BAFFLED HUSBAND: Well, yeah, sure.

LOVING WIFE: Then you’re a fucking asshole. A grade-A fucking asshole. When I suck cock, I don’t accept postcards for it.

BAFFLED HUSBAND: [confused] … come again?

LOVING WIFE: When I suck cock, I don’t accept postcards for it.

BAFFLED HUSBAND: What do you mean by that?

LOVING WIFE: You’re fucking dense, you know that? When. I. Suck. Cock. I. Don’t. Accept. Postcards. For. It.

BAFFLED HUSBAND: Ummm … But I’ve never tried to give you a postcard. You know, after that.

LOVING WIFE: Hey dipshit, did I say anything about your cock?

BAFFLED HUSBAND: … What do you mean by that?

LOVING WIFE: Cock. The thing between your legs. Sucking. Putting it in my goddamn mouth and sucking on it. I don’t take postcards for doing that. How fucking stupid are you?

BAFFLED HUSBAND: Ummm, I don’t like where this conversation is going.

LOVING WIFE: Well why don’t you complain to your whore? Maybe you’ll get another fucking [/i]postcard[/i] from good ole miss Power Drill Peters

BAFFLED HUSBAND: Buzzsaw Baldwin.

LOVING WIFE: Whatever. Get the fuck out of my house, Mr. Fucking Postcard Fetish, and never come back, unless you want me to cut off your thumb and stuff it into your dick.

BAFFLED HUSBAND: But …

LOVING WIFE: But nothing. Get the fuck out. Now.

BAFFLED HUSBAND: [resigned to fate] Fine. Fine, I’ll go. I’ll go if you want me to.[begins packing things]

LOVING WIFE: You’re damn right I want you to. You know I’ve always hated you and your cheating ways.

BAFFLED HUSBAND: [gives up] Okay.

LOVING WIFE: And all the pussy you ate always hurt me.

BAFFLED HUSBAND: [finishes packing] Okay.

LOVING WIFE: You and your goddamn postcards broke my heart, you worthless piece of shit.

BAFFLED HUSBAND: [leaving] Okay.

LOVING WIFE: Now GET THE FUCK OUT!!

BAFFLED HUSBAND: Okay. [begins walking down the street]

LOVING WIFE: [calls out] Hey, one more thing!

BAFFLED HUSBAND: What is it?

LOVING WIFE: I don’t know where you’re going to end up, but send me a postcard so I know you’re all right!

That's a lot of fuck.

Yeah, they're pretty over-the-top in their crudeness. I don't know what inspired that tone (they were all written right around the same time), but all seven are very, very vulgar. Unusual, that. Profanity is all but nonexistant in every other piece of fiction I've ever written, save a sparse few exceptions. These ... well, like you said. That's a lot of fuck.