Fish, Evelyn realizes, are assholes. She’s freezing her ass off and she can’t see through the water for shit and this is supposed to be educational? She glares through the porthole at a particularly scrofulous rockfish. “What the fuck are you looking at,” she mutters. “Fuckin’ asshole.”

The other morons are just thrilled to be out of class, of course. Grassfuckers are pleased as fucking punch if they’re not shackled to a desk for fifty five minutes at a stretch, but not her. She’s got vision. And though she vibes on the whole sunken museum aspect — the greasy black water oozing down the walls is a nice touch — the whole concept of a field trip can get fucked. Give her the fifty bucks she had to fork over to get in here and five hours of honest to god freedom and she can get way better educated than this.

She watches a crab pinching its way up one of the struts until it reaches the overhang and falls off. It’s like that. She gives the fucking bottomfeeder a fucking thumbs up out of solidarity, and of course that’s the one goddamn time all day anyone’s looking at her, so she has to put up with what passes for wit among the fucking Yahoos for a fucking week. Christ.

One thought on “Guttermouth

Comments are closed.