Thursday, October 28, 2004

Where Is Your Moon?

Well, it's day one of the Armegeddon and I feel fine. Last night's "End of Days" feel was almost complete. Sox win World Series...Lunar Eclipse...Prince of Arabs on his Deathbed (looks like the Gaza Salvation Army's going to have a whole new line of dishtowels soon). All we needed was some locusts and maybe some "Another Brick in the Wall"-type screaming, screeching guitar and helicopter noise. Oh, and if only Winston Zedimore was there to chime in after Egon at the mayor's office, "The day-ed risin' from the grave". Man, we came real close.

I tell you what the near-miss armegeddon didn't change at least one thing: Hispanic women still love screaming obscenities at each other in both English and Spanish on the subway for no reason. I'm sitting there, minding my own business, reading some crap on the A train when suddenly a fullscale "¡Tu Puta!"-war exploded. I thought punches were going to be thrown but luckily both of these locas were held back by their respective Latino lovers. The men kind of downplayed the incident, choosing instead to damn their backward-looking nations with a simmering machismo that halts any democratic progress, turning instead to an oligarchal regime of nepotism and corn products. But these women! I'm not even sure what they were fighting over, probably the whole Arafat thing or Lohan's boobs. The one who remained on the train with me kept muttering to her husband...maricon-this and maricon-that. I like how Latin American women feel comfortably calling each other "gay." You'd never see two women in Minnesota bump into each other at the Mall of America and start hurling homophobic epithets at each other: "You're a fag, eh?" "Oh, well now, you're a fag!"

So who WAS affected by last night's weirdness? Easy: Ms. Irene Polito. After a casual dinner without me, Ms. Polito decided it would be a great idea to A) get liquored up on Grey Goose and what smelled like Quaker State; B) forget her cellphone at home; C) throw her keys into the East River; and D) jam the buzzer so she could wake up Sir Don while he was sleeping, dosed on Ny-Quil and greenies. This one's for you, Irene! Espece de bec!


At 2:23 PM, Blogger Ace Cowboy said...

I'm not even saying this to be racist, but my apartment's dish towels are IDENTICAL to that thing on Arafat's head. White thing with black criss-cross lines on it, and the material looks to be an exact match. This beautiful, what is that, velvet?

At 3:28 PM, Blogger poophopanonymous22 said...

u're a racist, can i finish, can i finish...ok i'm finished

At 3:36 PM, Blogger Bart Starbux said...

You got to love Irene. She's really been on a rampage lately. I guess all it takes is vodka and motor oil to bring out that latent Faylene in our beloved Irene.


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