Douche Bag

AH, IT IS Friday morning, I am up early. Yet am not at all too crotchety, for the weather is cool despite it being the middle of July, the rain is coming down as if Al Queda planned it...and my roommate has just finished regaling me with not only an inadvertently insouciant description of the her recently acquired yeasties but how it so itches. I truly wish she were deaf and mute; at least she would have had to use her hands to convey the dreadful tale about her itchy cunt rather than digitally oblige the dreadful itch while she pontificated on about her vaginal discomfort!
I AM JUST A ROOMMATE!!! What the fuck possesses the tiny mind of this 42-year-olde fustilug to divulge every development that occurs in her unfucked crotch?! Even were I a female acquaintance, I doubt I would want to hear about it.
Am I correct, ladies?
Although a man, I am no stranger to the vagina. Unless the other is my lover, however, I DO NOT WANT TO HEAR ABOUT WHAT GOES ON IN ONE'S HOLE(S)! It is bad enough that the mannerless swat what inhabits the rat's nest that is the other room in our Brooklyn four-floor walk-up refuses to shut the god-damned toilet door, but that is for another day.

Ahem...

To add to my horror, it turned out to be a two-pronged attack.
She subconsciously - or so I would like to believe - flanked me.
Even in her very absence
she is incorrigibly revolting.

Saturday morning, and I saunter into the toilet to do what any human - as well as the occasional paleolithic palestinian - performs in order to face the day relatively unfettered and seemingly clean. As I start the shower, splash some water on my face and prepare to disrobe that I may fully appreciate the luke-warm water spraying hither and anon from the crusty showerhead, my eyes are brutalised by the sight of my favourite tea cup sitting on the sill of the tiny window - beside a giant white douche bottle! Staggering back, I spin and then lurch forward into the living room to find and finally strangle the yeast-stricken bitch. In my rage I kick a small box that, like too many other items before it, has been left in the middle of the fucking thoroughfare not unlike a brain-damaged five-year-olde child would have done.
It is the douche box!
Oh, how I wish I had the clap, or some other, ANY other, drippy dick disease, that I could reciprocate her announcements about her not-so-private aperture. Oh, how I would sling my ropey strings of diseased semen on her computer keyboard!
Alas, I am bereft of any such ailment. The lack of an icky weapon, as well as the absence of my wretched roommate, leaves me suddenly empty. The rage is gone, the homicidal desire has retreated to await a better day, and the cat is in the corner. His back is arched, his tail fearfully straight and his eyes as big as the yeast-flushing plastic baster that initially prompted me to go berserk.

I retire to the toilet to discharge my duties as plaintively, quickly, and quietly as possible.