I Want An Asian Girlfriend
by Sam (wearegenius@juno.com)
As I walked out of theatre after seeing The Transporter, I was immediately struck by two thoughts in this order: 1) I should become a transporter, and 2) I should trade in my Caucasian girlfriend for a real Asian.
“Stop thinking about trading me in for an Asian, Neal” said my blonde girlfriend with softball size breasts as she kicked me in the shin.
“Rule number two is no names,” I replied. I was stoic. I walked on the balls of my feet. I heard the people twenty feet away whispering various ATM PIN codes to each other. I knew kung-fu. “I’m going to drive you home now,” I said while admiring the expensive sweater I had bought for Ms. White standing next to me.
I turn on my car. I rev the engine up to the red line. The engine whines like a Pavlovian dog trained to whine when his master revs his car’s engine. My blonde queen with cherry lips just looks at the floor and shakes her head.
I let the clutch out as I force the gearshift into fifth from a dead start. The car stalls. I start it again. I try second. The engine gulps for fuel, sputters, smokes slightly, then begins its monotonous cycle of controlled explosions which cause my car to move forward. I don’t shift out of second until we are going 95 down a one-way street the right way. And then I pull the e-brake just to see what will happen. Breasty McHooterville hits her face on the windshield. I laugh coyly.
“Fuck you Pollack,” she screams as she rubs her forehead. “Jesus shit bags, just drop me off here.”
“Rule number two again, and I told you I was driving you home. The deal is nonnegotiable. I never change the deal. That is rule number one.”
I am slightly annoyed that I had to repeat the second rule, but at least I was able to weave the first rule into my narrative. The speedometer reads 13mph. I shift into fourth.
And then her house is straight ahead. And then I am driving through her living room. And then, just for the fuck of it, I shift into reverse. The wheels explode. The engine explodes. I remember the explosion-proof driver and passenger seat compartments I had installed yesterday and I smile smugly. “You killed my family and destroyed my house,” sobs my non-Asian girlfriend, “But your insane driving and knowledge of kung-fu have turned me on. I need you inside me.”
My eyes widen dramatically and I look at her toes. I follow her pant legs up to her pant crotch. Eyeing her zipper I think, ‘sure rule number three is never open the package, but if that guy from Snatch hadn’t broken that rule, The Transporter would have never been made.'
Halfway through the mind numbing (for her) sex, I close my eyes and think of Lucy Liu.
