Sunday, August 04, 2002

Two stories.

The departed Beatles and I were hanging about and they were both moody. I was surprised by their sudden needs to cry and be sad. I'm not sure if the garden was celestial or Earthly but suddenly I glance over and John is raking a very lush garden and as I'm thinking Holy Shit, why is John Lennon doing garden work, he throws down the rake and is despondent as George comes up and says Hey, remember that old blues song we sang a long time ago, about the tree buried six feet under the ground?
At that point they walk away, arms about shoulders singing the song.

The man whose weiner I now know too much about was sitting in front of a, for lack of more suddenly polite and available term, café, with his date and was complaining about his dinner, Too fishy, he said. What type of fish was it, I queried. Haddock was the answer and I commented that haddock should not be fishy and did he feel well? He and his date said, in unison, that he had just vomited on the sidewalk and pointed at it about ten feet away. I was shocked that I didn't vomit myself at the sight of the fresh puke as I'm a complete lightweight at the sight of bodily fluids - snot, earwax, puke, piss, shit, blood, especially blood, on the scene and your Fav Nancy is a puddle of... all of the above and bones and such.
So as we're talking and I'm facing them - and the puke - a woman walks down the street with a puppy on a leash. As she's busy window shopping the puppy is busy eating up the puke. She notices this, screams, and yanks the puppy away. Weiner Boy and the date don't notice this and when she's out of earshot I replay the scene most vividly. Of course.

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