Pinky and the Donkey Punch
The Pink-clad, putrid, Princess paraded past me. I saw, but I didn't stare. She walked back my way and sat across from me. A quick pucker of the pouty, twice injected lips was followed by a light apllication of hot pink lip gloss. Her pink passion fruit patterned dress reflected my disdain. I bectha she owned one of those annoying, yapping tiny dogs, more like large rats than canines, dressed up in fancy China pink sweaters, and fed better food than I can scratch together on a junkie's salary.
I imagined cheddar pink bows and maiden pink ribbons entagled in the locks of her spoiled purse pet. The kinda dog I'd have to hide in a desk draw because he wouldn't shut the fuck up. She's the type of chick that drank rainbow pink colored cocktails at Happy Hours in Soho during the week or before the Princess passed out on sun drenched, faded pink beach chairs, a dental floss thin, flamingo pink bikini protecting her from Sun cancer in South Hampton.
If she pulled out a pastel pink flavored iPod out of her new Kate Spade piglet pink tote, I was going to puke up last's night's spicy chicken onto her pink flip flops. Instead, she pulled out a a pink chick lit book and right there I wanted to grab her, bend her over and subject the Pink-clad, putrid, Princess to a donkey punch, after she screamed out the twelve different shades of pink.
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