Dingo Lit

The following episode took place at a restaurant in Los Angeles over the weekend.  

Orlando Bloom, 32, an aging film star, and Mirandingo Kerr, 29 ?!  13?! 7?!, his failed Supamodel girlfriend enter the establishment.   The staff ignores them for a full minute.   It’s uncomfortable for the dingo, who can’t stand to not be recognized.

Dingo:  Eye wahnt tew leave this restorunt, Whorelando.   They arrint showing us any ruspekt.

Whorleando:   I’ll take care of this.  

He snaps his fingers to get their attention, but no sound happens from the motion.   He tries it again to no avail.  

Dingo:  What the hail’z rong with yer finguhs?   Why cant they make them snap-sounds?

Whorelando:  Oh phuck.   The doctor said this might happen.

Dingo:  What doctuh?

Whorelando:  The doctor who sliced open my arms and inserted those hot silicon muscles, dipshit.  He said I might lose strength in weird ways. 

Dingo:   That wuzzn’t no doctuh.  That wuz a plasstick surjun.   Let me handul this.

 

The dingo snaps her fingers.   Sound happens.   So does something else, though:   The motion of her finger-snapping lets fly some blood caked in the bed of her nails left over from her early-morning squirrel butchering.  The blood particles landed on her lace purse.   Dingo:  Oh phuckity phuck phuck… my favoritt puss.  Now I may half to be papped holding a new puss.  Waituh!   What’s this all abowt?  Are we getting a table or knot?!

The Waiter just looks at her.  “You’ll get your table just as soon as the paps arrive.  That’s what Carli told us when she called,” he said. 

Dingo:  Oh.   I unduhstahnd now.

Whorelando has missed the whole exchange.   He’s still trying to get his fingers to make noise when he snaps them.

Dingo:   Oh, give it up already.

He stops.   Looks up at her after a moment, and says:   “Can I ask you a question, Randa May?”

“The answer is ‘no’.”  

“Huh?”

“The answer to your question is ‘no’.  For the third time.”

“I havn’t even asked you a question, yet.  I certainly haven’t asked it three bloody times.”

“You mean you weren’t going to axe me to merry yoo again?”

“What?  I never asked you to marry me!”

“Knot troo!   Knot uhkording to Grawtzia Magazine.  Knot uhkording to my dreemz and phantaseas.  Knot ukording to the natchural processez of the whorld.”

Outside, camera flashes temporarily blind them for a minute. 

The waiter hands them their menus and says:   “I can seat you now.”

Whorelando follows the waiter and the dingo grabs onto his arm.  

Dingo:  “I feel so dizzee…  The camera’s and their lites make me dizzee, you know.   Dizzee, like a bee.”

The waiter stops leading them; turns to look at her.   “Busy,” he corrected her. 

Dingo:  Whart?

The waiter:   “Busy like a bee.  Bee’s don’t get dizzy.”

Dingo:  Whatevah.   Yer just a phat jellus h8er and why don’t yoo just get us a nize table near a windo and storp sassing yer bettuhs.”

LATER, the two are seated at their table near a broken window.   Most of their food has been consumed.   The dingo is gnawing at the marrow in her pork chop and Whorelando watches her, appalled but fascinated, the way any one would be if they were watching a lion or some other carnivore devouring their kill.

The dingo feels his eyes on her.  She covers her mouth and burps (coyly).  “Sew whart did you warnt to axe me abowt earlier?”

Whorelando:   “Oh, that?”

The dingo:  “Yeah.  Whart was thart all abowt?”

He sighed.  “I don’t know.   I suppose I was having a moment of clarity.  It has passed.”

Dingo:  “Good.  Momints of clairity are nevah any good.  It wuz a momint of clairity that made my publisher apply the brakes to thart book I planned on ghowst-writing.”

“What book?”

“Trezzuh Yerselph!  Yoo know, that boolshit eye was gonna try tew pheed yung, impreshunable gurls whoo don’t kno any bettuh.”

“Oh. Right.  Yeah, advice from a self-obsessed, scrawny panty model.  That would have gone down well at Newbury.”

She narrows her eyes at him and picks up her fork.  “What the hail didjoo just say to me?”

“I said that you’ve accomplished a lot!   You’ve done so much great stuff in your 21 years on this planet.”

“At least you got my age ryte,  Fur once.”

“21 plus 5,” he added, quietly.

Her eyes became narrow, evil, slits.   “What?”

“I said that you’re 26 freaking years old,” he said.   Boldly.

She picked up her glass of water and threw it his face. 

The whole restaurant stopped and stared.   “Woooopz!” she said, and got up and started blotting his face with her napkin.   The people in the restuarant, thinking the whole thing was an accident, went back to their own private conversations.  Up close, she was able to growl her threats deep inside his ear:   “Sidi’s not here to lick it off your face this time buddy.   One of these days I’m gonna throw something in your face and it ain’t gonna come off so easy.”

“Oh God.   Randa May, I promise to never say your real age again.”

“That’s much better,” she said.  “Now back to this momint of clairity.  Eye think yoo better tell me whart it was all abowt.”

He sighed.   “I was going to ask you why you put up with me, darling?  I’m a GD philanderer.”

“But that’s why we’re sooo good together, Whorelandow.   I’m a fillanderrer too.   I care abowt the envighronmint!  And the kooalluhs!   I toork my cloze off fur the kooalluhs.  In fact, I’m a much bigguh fillanderrer than yoo becuzz I stripped myself naykid fur the envighronmint.   What have yoo dun??   All yoo ever did wuz yell at my fashion icon Kate Bozworth for littering that won thyme.  I’ve never seen yoo take yor cloze off for the environment.   All I ever done is hear abowt yoo taken yor cloze off fur other womin.”

To this, Whorelando said absolutely nothing.   There was nothing to say.   He passed the remainder of their lunch thinking about how much he’d rather be on a deserted island, picking leeches off his body and bashing his head in with a coconut, than being here with this vapid, mangy panty-model dingo whore.  He thought about Viggo.  He thought about his life four years ago.   He thought about Kate Bosworth, and how, at one point in his life, a pretty girl who had been admitted to Princeton, once found something to love about him.