Casey Heinisch, contributor
It has been three months since I crash landed in this strange place behind the Redwood Curtain. I am now certain that a rescue vessel is not going to be arriving. I am stranded. It is time to mingle with the locals and hopefully be accepted into their tribe.
The woman who owns the property where I currently reside informed me that she has the perfect girl for me to meet, her niece, and I would simply love her. She assured me that she wasn’t a “drug addled hippie” but a “high class lady” with a degree and a job. I told her I would indeed copulate with her niece, but I don’t think she understood. She asked me. “Huh?” To which I responded “set the meeting”.
The rendezvous point was a restaurant of her choosing, that shall remain nameless. The girl was attractive and seemingly intelligent, albeit a little vain. I have been having a difficult time understanding the locals since I arrived, but this was perhaps the biggest episode of miscommunication. I expected chicken for dinner but what I got was self-indulgent discussion in a hypocritical irony reduction. While she blabbered on about the necessity of supporting good local artisans, and the beauty of living in a town free of evil corporate entities; she kept instagramming photos of her dinner on her new iPhone and commenting on the warmth of her Patagonia jacket. A discrepancy that when pointed out only made her… agitated.
I tried to entertain conversation on her level, but I don’t understand the hierarchy of what constitutes a mega-corporation that is worthy of patronage and one that is evil. Trendiness, maybe? Sensing trouble I appealed to a base emotion that women everywhere share a weakness towards, flattery. I told her that the strange colored Patagonia jacket made her look beautiful. This immediately released the tension and corrected my previous mistakes.
I have concluded this woman is as close to being high classed as she is to being a performing dolphin. Having written dinner off as a glaring example of the locally crafted/ fair trade pot calling the kettle black, I resigned to the idea that I was getting nowhere. Then she invited me to
her apartment for a nice glass of Argentinean Malbec. I accepted the invite, after one glass of Malbec and four bottles of blue Hawaiian Boones Farm apple wine, the night concluded in the customary blowjob on the
floor of her bathroom with the sound of her roommates snores ripping through the walls. Her technique was great and she held her pinky out ever so daintily while she slobbered away. Oh yes, I see it so clearly now, she was a high class lady indeed.
Conclusion: I may not ever fully understand the indigenous population of this strange land, but I see potential and am eager to keep trying. In the name of research exploration I will make my way through the hypocritical subsets of the Humboldt county female population.