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Just Wait 'Til I Get These Fucking Rubber Bands Off
Op Ed Photo

Oh, man. You just caught yourself a whole mess of trouble, pal. Believe it. I don't think you realize who you're dealing with here. You might have me in the tank for now, but just wait 'til I get these fucking rubber bands off.

That was some cheap move, capturing me in some trap. You didn't have the guts to come looking for me yourself, 'cause you know you wouldn't last five minutes in the depths where I live. But you knew exactly what would make me come sniffing around, and you set me up good. Well, chalk one up for you, mister, and enjoy it, 'cause it's the only one you're gonna get.

Come on. Take the fucking rubber bands off, I fucking dare you. Just the left one, the one on my little claw. I'll make you wish you were never born.

I know what you think of me. I disgust you. You don't like my kind. I'm a bottom feeder, no better than a cockroach. "You should see how they live, what they eat," you say. "They use those claws mostly on each other, fighting over the women. And their brains are tiny." Well, I'll tell you one thing: My brains are a hell of a lot bigger than your balls, you trap-using pussy.

And they say we're the spineless ones.

You thought you were in control, but now you're not so sure. Can you really afford to do this? Am I going to be more trouble than I'm worth? Well, pally, it's gonna be a hell of a lot of work, I guarantee you that. More than you've ever had for a piece of tail. You thought you wanted the biggest and best, but now you're realizing that, pound for pound, you just bit off more than you could chew. Better take off that fancy dinner jacket, pal. We're going at it hammer and tongs, you and I. And when the steam clears, there's only gonna be one of us moving.

So come on. Take the rubber bands off. Take them off, Mr. Fancy. I'm feeling salty. Mano a mano, sucker. Let's go.

Leaving them on, huh? I knew it. I knew you were too big a coward to square off with me on a level playing field. And giving me to your woman to play with first! That takes the cake. Say, is that supposed to be me on your bib? It better fucking not be. I've never worn a fruity mustache or a fucking chef's hat in my life. Or rubber bands, either. I'd kill you with my two bare claws, if only I had the chance.

I don't know why you dragged me and those other guys in here. I'm sure you had your reasons. Maybe that's how you get your kicks—lure us in, set the table for a nice night, then get things simmering. You turn the heat up gradually, figuring we might not even notice at first. Then, you think, we'll show our true colors, maybe even squeal. Well, I ain't never gonna squeal. And I might get steamed, but I'll never get soft. You better have some special stuff if you want to crack me. I don't crack easy. And you won't hear a peep outta me no matter what you do. That story's for the sob sisters and the tourists.

I'm giving you one last chance. We can do this the gentlemanly way, both of us with our appendages free, or we can do it the ugly way. You wanna see things get ugly? Because I promise that they will if you come anywhere near me with those tongs. Rubber bands or no rubber bands, you are going down, buddy. I am one bad example of my type, and it won't be me in deep dip when this is all over.

Oh, you asshole. You gutless pansy. You can bite my ass.

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