Wednesday, April 20, 2005

In the Wee Small Hours of the Mourning

First off, the WYSIWYG Talent Show was a blast yesterday. Make sure to check out the blogs of all the other readers, Elizabeth, Daniel, Jon, Brian and Andy . Thanks to Chris, and also to Rachel who brought me a copy of her book Naughty Spanking Stories A to Z, which I foolishly forgot to take out of my bag before coming into work today. Note that when I say "bag", I'm referring to the gigantic lucite coffin with thick cowhide strap I lug around everywhere, and you can begin to understand my predicament.

Following a less successful stint at the Dallas BBQ (where they refused to seat me and my five friends on their "terraza", because they thought we'd be too "messy." Meanwhile, there's an infant sitting in a basin full of barbecue sauce playing darts using ribs and a pig's face as a target, havin' a time of it.) Following an hour of nauseated debauchery (seated inside) and filled to the brim with syrupy pina colada, I ambled west with two friends, where we passed a number of druggies passed out on the sidewalks of the city. It's amazing: Once the temperature breaks 70 degrees, every single toothless, open-shirted fuck-up in New York decides to hit the streets. Every winter I seem to forget about the city's (whispered) "homeless problem", sure enough, come April, and this guy cops a feel on the subway.

The great thing about downing 64 oz. of rum is that ya sleep like a baby. A tiny, barely breathing, dim-witted baby. The fetal alcohol syndrome doesn't hit until mornin time. (Don't you dare ask me to post a picture of that, you sick bastard.)

Last night was positively balmy here in the city. So at around 5 am, the temp under my covers passing 4000 degrees, I had no choice but to get up, strip, open my windows all the way up, and knot my curtains to allow a little "luft" into the room, as the new Pope Benedict XVI would say.

Here's the best part: With my window all the way up, I could hear everything that was happening in the alley behind my building! And it's a shame that cats make so much noise when they get raped, because there's an entire market of felines out there who would be totally jazzed to get their paws on one of them there rape whistles. These cats were given it up without consent all night long. Oh, and mark your calendars, the birds are back from the South, and they've all decided to kibbitz at 6 am on the tree right outside my window! At around 6:30, that's when the neighbors who are in long but ultimately unsatisfying relationships wake up and have morning sex. That's also when the garbage truck rumbles its way down the next block up. And at 7, that's when my alarm goes off, playing "High-falootin' Owl" off of my "Dom Delouise Sings!" CD. [via Transbuddha]

So let's review: cats getting raped, birds geshrei-ing, people fucking (unless there's an autistic girl living nearby, it was kind of hard to tell), clanging garbage truck, and a singing D-list celebrity chef.

So, to answer the question that no one cared enough to ask, that's why I'm tired and yawning today.

But hey! At least I didn't get stuck in a bathtub for 5 days, right!? I leave you with the last two paragraphs, which need no embellishment:

After she was lifted to safety and donned a warm robe, Fromal didn’t ask for food. She wanted one of her Parliament 100s and a Coke.

It wasn’t the first time Fromal has been stuck in the bathtub, but her family plans to make sure it never happens again by adding railings and a tub chair to the bathroom.

Aww... look at this little guy! You're not gonna get stuck in that tub, now are ya?! No, of course not. You're just gonna get raped in my airshaft, right ya little prick?

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