The Muse

The following argument was heard in a Portland diner that was just about to shut down its breakfast menu. The verbal scuffle took place between a famous photographer and his new model. It was all recorded on CCTV and jotted down on the back of a napkin by gonzo journalist Bill Warren. Warren’s only venture into the literary world before this had been his novel Fully Clothed Dinner, which was later discovered to be a comedy of error since he was under the impression that Truman Capote had been his inspiration only to discover in a live interview that it had been William S. Burroughs. He was later recorded as saying it was Breakfast at Tiffany’s that had confused him and made him fail P.E.

“I dare you to over-expose me!”

“Jesus, I just might if you go on like this.”

“And why do you always want to do neurotic photos?

“God, it’s erotic, how many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Why the beard then?”

“It adds contrast.”

“Are you going to eat that phallus of sausages?”

“Jesus, it’s a phalanx of sausages. How many times do I have to correct your collective nouns.”

“Don’t you ever talk about Kant’s noumenon like that.”

“What the fuck, are you seeing Kant now?”

“Sometimes. But only at the library.”

“Jesus, don’t tell me you’re fucking Kant at the library.”

“No, we do it on a bed of fig Newtons.”

“God, I’ll kill him.”

“I really don’t know why we’re fighting. It was you who suggested I model for his Categorical Imperative.”

“No I did not! I told you to model for his deontological normative theory.”

“Fuck you! You are such a brut. You know I don’t wear deodorant! It’s got all those animal hairs in it.”

“Look, just finish your rabbit stew and let’s get out of here. I want to snap you with a bowl of fruit — they’re already ripe. I don’t want them getting any more tender especially since I’ve got something exotic planned for you.”

“Don’t even think about it. Not now. And anyway, I’ve got a class on deconstructing Harry Wilmot at 3.”

“Who the fuck is Harry Wilmot?”

“ I don’t know, that’s why the class needs to reconstruct him to figure out who the hell he is.”

“Fine, fine. It was only going to be a quick shoot. Nothing too prolonged. I just wanted to juxtapose spherical fruit, your breasts, and my first childhood banana peel, circa 1925.”

“God, that’s so boring. Why can’t you do something daring like what Maplesugar does?’

“I give up, I really do give up.”

“What?”

“The fucking waiter’s charged us for an OJ I never had.”

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