Who Wears Short Shorts

I story I was told recently:

So there was this chick I used to date, she was beautiful. The girl looked like Madonna. I mean, she had million dollar legs. There used to be this commercial, "Who wears short shorts?" and she was lined up to be in it. She had an appointment with a photographer and everything. But she was crazy. She was the kind of girl that would hit you if she didn't like what you were saying. I mean literally hit you. One time we were out and I was driving. It was late and I'd gotten tired so I told her I was taking her home. "What a load of bullshit," she said, "you're not tired, you're gonna drop me off and then go out with your friends." I'm not, I told her. So, she punched me right in the face. I almost crashed the car. After I pulled over, I tried to drag her out of the car. I was fed up. Kicking and screaming and clawing, I finally got her out. As I'm walking around to my door she jumped onto the hood of the car and kicked my windshield in. I couldn't believe it. So I ran around to the other side of the car, fuming mad, yelling, and I grabbed her, fighting with her there in the street. A local guy, called Lizard, big guy, comes running out of the bar and tells me to leave the girl alone. "Lizard," I tell him, "mind your fucking business, look at my fucking car, get outta here." Now I gotta worry about fighting this guy, too. But he was a punk, and he ran back inside. She was crying and hitting at me, and I couldn't get rid of her, so I threw her back in the car and drove home. She wanted nothing to do with me. When I got there I told my father to take her home, I was done with her. But after a few days, I was back with her.

She was the kind of girl you couldn't walk down the street with. Everybody wanted to fuck her. Cars would be honking horns, assholes would be whistling, cat calling hey baby and all that shit. You couldn't go anywhere without getting into a fight. One day, this guy Arthur, he was a mob guy, well-dressed, sharp, comes bursting out of a barber shop as we're walking by. Goes right past me and starts putting the moves on her - in front of my face. The guy had no respect. Now what am I gonna do? I'm gonna have to fight this guy, and I'm probably gonna get my ass beat. Even if I don't, and I beat his ass, then I'll have his mob boys on me. I hated being in these situations. But she was crazy though, she'd hit him over the head with a stick or a bottle; there was no way she was gonna let me get my ass kicked. I was lucky this time, she told him she was with me, grabbed my arm and kept walking. Just stoned cold dissed him.

So, I was out on my motorcycle one day. And you know me, I liked to party. Before I took a shower, I ate a few Tuinal. They were barbiturates. They don't make them anymore, but they made you feel drunk, like you were floating. I used to eat a lot of them. My tolerance was so high that if you gave a normal guy the dose I was taking, it would kill him. I ate them like candy. So I'm cruising, and then I see her. She's all dolled up and I tell her to get on and come for a ride. I swear to god I'm not driving a few blocks, when all of a sudden, some dumb motherfucker cuts me off and slams on his brakes. So I hit the brakes and try to swerve around him. As I cleared his car I lost control of the bike and we went down. Got thrown off the bike and we both went sliding onto gravel. Ripped us up bad. She was wearing shorts.

She was supposed to see the photographer the next day. Instead we're lying in the hospital, her legs all bandaged up like a mummy, and she's cursing me out, crying, calling me every name in the god damned book. How was I supposed to know the guy was gonna cut me off?