“He’s not going to make the exam, Essig. You don’t practice enough with him.”
I looked at the swimming instructor in disbelief.
“What do you mean ‘I don’t practice enough with him’? He gets more practical tips in swimming with his clothes on from me than you could probably think of.”
“He needs to practice swimming with clothes on more often. He needs more order, discipline and frankly, a good spanking once in a while. If he were MY son…”
My disbelief started to grow into frustration. “Well, he’s MY son and I practice three times a week with him; right here in this stinking, unhygienic cesspit you dare call a swimming pool. You see me every time when you shamelessly accept my card to pay for the entrance fee with that smug face. Swimming in a tar pit would be better for your health than diving into these infested waters.”
I looked at his speedos. I realized that what I was about to say was low, but I couldn’t help my mind forming all sorts of remarks I would happily throw in his face, had this little angel not gently nested itself on my shoulder and started whispering to me, trying to soothe my boiling thoughts.
Eugene ‘Scotch’ Essig! Don’t go there. You’re better than this. He’s just an ass. Don’t be a dick. You’re more of a pussy.
Great. Even an inner monologue with my conscience could manage to piss me off.
Now, this dude was fairly muscular. Even a guy like me, who needed sarcasm as much as he needed oxygen, could see that. But frankly, I really didn’t give a shit. I knew he put on his ‘tough guy’ face now because he was a sorry cocksucker who had just taken up this job to be able to prance around for the decadent, shallow and superficial bimbos who dared call themselves ‘mom’ to these little shits who NEVER showed up for practice and, therefore, sucked donkey balls WAY more than my son Pewter.
Instructor A. Hole then lost his patience and showed his true nature.
“Listen, buddy! Don’t you dare speak to me like that. You and your son can rot in this pool for all I care!” He smirked. “I get paid anyway. Now what are you gonna do about that, huh?”
Remember Gene, you’re not helping anyone with those thoughts you’re having. Come on, cut him a break. He’s not worth the effort, and – you’re not listening to me at all, are you? – oh, fuck this.
“I get it. I’d be pissed as well if I had to wear speedos by regulation. Must be a bummer to get a hard-on in those. Shows how small it is. Oh, I’m sorry. It’s probably just really cold in here.” I saw the guy building up steam. His head was now getting as red as a ripe tomato, ready to burst open. “You know, I’d better go. That ‘all red in the face’ thing goes really well with those pinchers – oh my god, my junk already hurts just by looking at them – and I’m sure it’ll be a big hit with these desperate housewives (I pointed at the shocked moms of the other kids behind me), but it’s just not my thing. I do admire your self-confidence – however direly misplaced – for wearing them day in, day out without even showing a shred of embarrassment.”
With a snarl, the instructor launched himself at me. It was pretty obvious he wanted to hurt me bad. It’s what tiny brains do when wit fails – they resort to violence, and do so combined with a very small vocabulary containing mostly explicit language.
The little angel on my shoulder tapped against my temple. Yo, pussy. Wet towel to your left.
In one smooth move, I grabbed the wet towel and slapped the instructor’s crown jewels so hard with it that even Prince William and Kate’s chances to ever have a baby dropped with about 76%.
As Pewter and I left behind a squeaking swimming instructor squirming on the floor, I knew I had won at least one battle today:
My conscience had finally realized I was a dry sarcastic dick, not a wet, squeaking pussy.