Jobs

Act 14 – the Guidance Counselor(s) | a dialogue

My own marriage needs counseling. For real.

~ Althea Cassidy

“Althea, please buckle up.”

“No.”

“Come on, don’t be difficult. Just put your seatbelt on.”

“You should’ve told yourself that while you were driving your díck up that woman’s hemorrhaging vâgina!”

“Jesus Christ, please...honey...I don’t have the energy to deal with you right now.”

“Oh sure you don’t have the energy to discuss this, and yet I find you plowing into her like some pre-ejaculating teenager...in our bed. In. Our. Bed. There...I fʊcking put my seatbelt on, you príck.”

“Althea, stop it. Althea stop it! Stop hitting me or we’ll both have an accident!”

“Oh...you like that huh!? You like getting hit!”

“Stop slapping me! Jesus Christ!!”

“Oh come on, Richard. You know you love being slapped. She kept slapping you like you were a pʊssy and you liked it, didn’t you!? DIDN’T YOU! Is that what you want me to do huh? Bítch slap the shít outta you!”

“FʊCKING HELL! STOP IT! Ooooh, yelling at you makes my blood come alive. I feel the passion coming back, baby.”

“Ugh, you make me sick, Richard...sick—!”

“Nah, you ain’t sick. That’s just the meds you’re popping, you methead crackwhôre bítch!”

“Aw don’t use my roofies addiction as leverage for your philandering. And that’s not fair you calling me a bítch!”

“Oh ho ho…bítch.”

“You fʊcking âsshole! YOU FʊCKING CHEATER!”

“What is wrong with you!!?? I give you a fʊcking good life and two fʊcking children and a fʊcking good house. What more do you want!!!???”

“I want you faithful, you âsshole! FAITHFUL!”

“SHíT! Holy fʊck, we almost hit that old woman. Sit the fʊck down, Althea! You’re gonna give me a coronary!”

“Oh don’t you die on me you cheating bastard. Don’t you die on me.”

“With the way you’re acting like a stone-cold bítch I’m sure as hell gonna die soon.”

“I’m sorry, okay? Just...just center yourself, Richard. Breathe in...breathe out. Are you fʊcking listening to me?”

“I am. It’s all I do. Listen to your whiny little trouty mouth. If you were putting that mouth to good use sucking my côck then we wouldn’t have this problem we’re having...ow, ow! You...stop hitting me—!”

“You’re all over the place, Richard. You have no center. Find your center. Breathe...woozah...”

“What about you center my côck, bítch. The last time you sucked my díck was when I last shaved all my pubic hair to make my côck look bigger, but still that wasn’t enough. Ah-uh, it’s my turn to talk. You’re not allowed to talk. So sit the fʊck down! Okay...I’m sorry, alright? I’m sorry I’m not your Jamie Dornan Fifty Shades Abercrombie model. I’m only a middle-aged fat fʊck who, like any average man, likes to twiddle with his díck all day. I’m not the Chris Hemsworth-type who butches up and drinks protein shakes and eats protein bars and shít. I’m just your average American. All I’m asking is...all I’m asking is that you suck my côck twice a day like it’s a snack because that’s what you call marriage.”

“I’m not a fʊcking Fleshjack, you moron! And besides...my body’s going through some changes too, Richard. You have to understand that.”

“Yeah, it’s called fʊcking menopause...ow! What did I tell you about hitting!? Jesus fʊcking Christ.”

“Shut up, Richard. So yeah...I, too, have desires like any other woman. But they’re not as strong as yours that’s why...oh God, can you please drive carefully!!?? I’m going to rupture an implant!”

“Fʊck your implants, and your low self-esteem!”

“How dare you! I’m not the only one with issues! I went through your receipts the other night. Buying that...that flesh pump, or díck pump, or whatever you call that suctioning shít you bought on sss!”

“Fʊck! Why’re you going through my receipts goddammit!”

“Because that’s what wives do, Richard. It’s our job to be nosy bítches and sniff out our husbands...primordial activities.”

“Primordial activities? Where the fʊck do you even get these words?”

“It’s called self-improvement, Richard. Reading is one of them. Try it once in a while...instead of delving too deep in your issues about being a middle-aged kinky fʊck.”

“Oh, honey, trust me. My issues are beneath me.”

“No, Richard, a whôre, a w***e is what’s beneath you.”

“Comes from the woman who works on herself inside and out. Emphasis on the inside with your fʊcking yogi instructor curing your imaginary problem about anal leakage.”

“Oh shut the fʊck up, Richard. And it’s yoga instructor. Yogi sounds elementary.”

“Elementary...pfft...elementary my teenage côck.”

“Shut up. I’m enjoying my eight dollar coffee which...by the way...is the ONLY THING I CAN AFFORD RIGHT NOW, with you throwing money away to those whôres you bed!”

“Althea...just...just drop the caffeine...doesn’t go well with your roofies addiction. It’s making you edgy and...irrational.”

“For your information, this is a limited-edition decaf lite Starbucks coffee that uses rainforest rain, saved whale milk that’s low fat, chemically reclaimed freerange organic tofu, and recycled brown sugar. And it’s approved by PETA.”

“Shít. No wonder it smells like a bítch and stinks like a pornstar. It’s making you jacked up and busted like Lindsay Lohan.”

“Hmm...whatever happened to that bítch?”

“I dunno...beats me. Miley Cyrus is the new It-girl now.”

“Shut up, Richard. I’m enjoying my coffee.”

“Oh, oh! Now I got a call, you shut up...Hell...hello? Hello!!? If you’re a dude fʊcking my wife get the fʊck out—! If you’re one of my bítches then...leave a message.”

“Philandering bastard.”

“Yogi-fʊcking bítch.”

“I hate you so much.”

“Just clear your head, Althea. Do it like I do it...see? It’s called meditating...not bending over to get fʊcked by a yogi...aw yeah...I feel so empty right now. It’s like I crapped the crap out of my brain.”

“Rich?”

“Yeah?”

“What are you thinking right now?”

“A gangbang fʊck fest, taking it left, right and center.”

“Eeewww…so gross. It’s always about you and your penis.”

“I’m sorry if Mother Nature made your private parts so tedious, okay? Not my fault that the vâgina expands, making it un-pleasurable.”

“Oh God, Richard, you’re gonna kill me before my genes do...just park the car. We’re here...hey! Hey! Are you just gonna leave me here!?”

“WHAT!? You expect me to open the door for you? Don’t you have hands? Oh, oh! Right! You know what, you don’t. Because if you had hands you would be jacking me off in the car while I was drivin’ but you wasn’t. So open the door yourself, bítch.”

“Fʊcking âsshole...wait...wait! Do I look okay?”

“Yeah, you look fine. You look fine...ready to do this?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Nah, we gotta make a living, sugar títs.”

“Open the door for me will you. Makes it more believable.”

“After you, pumpkin pie.”

“Ssshh...shut up...good morning everybody! And welcome to Couple’s Counseling. I’m Althea Cassidy, and this is my lovely, faithful husband, Richard Cassidy. And we’re here to help each other talk about our issues, and hopefully, at the end of this seminar, come to accept our differences and make our marriages work for years to come...isn’t that right, Richard?”

“Yes, honey, yes. That’s the first rule of marriage, people. The wife...the wife is always right.”