“General dogsbody is not what I signed on for,” Matt shouted at the pirates. “I’ve had it up to here with too many sweaty leather pants and pissy jockstraps. They can wash their own fuckin’ undies from now on.” Matt threw the offending items in Colin’s general direction and stood with his arms dramatically on hips. It was a Bette Davis moment.
I heard Vern whisper, “With a performance like that she could be an overnight sensation.”
“She bellows and screams like an A-grade diva,” Richard guffawed.
I hate it when gay guys call each other ‘she.’ Granted, it was old-fashioned gay Polari, but I hate it.
Matt was steaming. “As for you, Miss Digit Dick,” he said, turning on Richard, using the disparaging name everyone, including his best friends, used behind his back, “You might try wiping on the odd occasion so I don’t have to scrape the skidmarks off your tights before I send them to the laundry.” He stormed toward the exit.
There was an audible gasp. You just don’t speak to pirates in this manner. No siree. Not if you wanted to survive for very long. Even if the pirates in question were part of a production of Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Pirates of Penzance. Even if they were an unruly chorus of street trash, ferals and narcissistic bodybuilders.
