Monday, August 11, 2008

Subway Monday


I should just only fucking talk about the subway since that is where all the bad shit in THE WORLD HAPPENS.  I don't even want to read the news anymore because the only thing worse than warring nations is warring NYC commuters in the morning.

Today's mishap: A hasidic (spelling?) Jew with a four inch long skin tag on his neck decides to be that very last person that slips into the L train doors at the Bedford Avenue stop.  In order to accomplish this task he grabs the man's shoulder next to me to wedge his mammoth body into the chamber and into my cock.  Rather than shuffling himself in the center of the door with his back against it, which most humans prefer to do since it not only gives you a little room but also allows other people to not fall victim to your hot breath, he decides to fall on me for most of the trip to 1st Avenue.  As most of you know, this sojourn through the dark tunnel is not a quick and easy feat.  

In great frustration, I shove my Jack Spade between my cock and the Rabbi whilst rolling my eyes and acting super faggy as a sort of "fuck you"to the great Torah.  With crazy batty eyes and another skin tag flapping along his eyelid, Rabbi starts muttering to me in Yiddish.  As if.
At Union Square when I think I am finally going to be free, mother fucker decides to block the entire door so that I basically am unable to move.  I am shoved, cursed at and spit on by the people trying to get out.  Rabbi seems to blame me for this idiocy.  After the crowd clears and I avoid stoning, I sit down.  For the entire next stop I'm afraid to make eye contact with the crazy dreidel because I thought he was going to knife me for shoving my Jack Spade into his fat rotunudo abdomen.  He also picked his nose (openly I may add graciously) the entire trek from US to 6th.  I made it though.  Mazel Tov to me.

Union Square update:Did anyonse see the freak who looked like a fairy tale witch and had numerous face piercings squeezing the plastic shark (that squeaked) into the faces of alarmed passers-by on this evening's commute home?  I hated her too.
 

Thursday, August 7, 2008

Isn't She Lovely? Isn't She a Pearl?


Subway Report. Last evening. I'm sweating I just left the gym and I look completely heinous and unfit to be classified as human being. I sit and I read On Beauty by the delectable Zadie Smith. In walks a foreign object with bright pink hair. She smells like sour onions and the air directs cheeks to spontaneously sag in disgust. Pink is accompanied by an albino male with long white hair and another girl who may be a lesbian but isn't nearly as grotesque as the other two. The discussion commences:
Less Hideous Girl: So I used to have all these piercings on my face and my dad paid me money to have them in less visual places.
Albino: Slides greasy hand on bar above my head and grunts
Pink: (in husky voice) How much?
Less Hideous Girl: Enough
Pink: (really smelling like onions now) My body piercings make me giggle when I'm on hallucinogenics.
Less Hideous Girl: (you can tell she wants to bite her own nipples off and make an O face)
Pink: I mean as an unemployed bartender I don't really give a fuck what I look like and I don't think people do either.
Albino: (lost in a Dr. Zizmor ad to the disappointment of his lady loves)
Pink: (trying to sound impressive) Yeah I had a mohawk when I was 13
Less Hideous Girl: (seat is dripping) wow
Pink: Yeah then I had dreadlocks all through high school
Less Hideous Girl: I always wanted dreadlocks you know that started with cornrows and then just like flowed out - but my job would like totally kill me.
Pink: I dig that
Albino: (re-reading the number to Dr. Zizmor) he grunts.
Pink: Hey! have you seen the ad for pubic hair dye? They have a color that is exactly my hair and it's called "fun." So I'm like fun (cough).
Albino: OMG that's so cool!
Pink: (Top of her lungs) - Too bad I don't have a carpet to match the draped. I should grow out my carpet.

Saturday, August 2, 2008

Ikea a la Hook de Rojo

Well it's been entirely too long hasn't it? Who am I kidding? No one is reading this.  I've been spending way too much time complaining about all my corporate urban woes and the new pair of jeans I can't afford because I booked too many vacations this year.

After having several glasses of Pinot Grigio and arguing with myself for far too long about where my new step shelf should be in my far too tiny apartment, I decided there was no better time than to reconnect with my peers.

Ikea. Say it with me. I-KEEEE-Ah.  It ends with relief. Or so that is the allusion that somehow permeates all of our minds right before we decide to take the annoying voyage to one of their may locations.  Let's be honest - no one lives near an IKEA.  They were brilliant enough to put them in several remote locations so the sheer act of traveling to one builds more anticipation than an adolescent game of seven minutes in heaven.

I fell victim to their game today.  Oh yes. On the advice of my friend who is trying to refurbish his lovely studio (I still share an apartment because I'm into 'saving' - or because I'm a drunk and have to feed my habits, one no more valid than the other).  So I log onto IKEA's website and or course it makes it sound so easy to get to each and every one of their locations.  My friend and I decide that we will try the new hot location in Red Hook because there are like thirty five ways to get there and we were already in Brooklyn so how hard could it REALLY be, right?  

I suggest the M train.  M FOR MISTAKE of course.  That shit don't run nowhere fast on the weekends.  But then God came down and told us to try the water taxi downtown which happened to be the utter highlight of my day - I got to see Lady Liberty and sit with fat people for fifteen minutes each way which is a helluva lot more convenient than taking a shuttle from the Trash Authority to the Elizabeth location.  

Anyway I'm all orgasmic at the thought of walking into this amusement park of a monstrosity and then once I walk in it hits me like a tons of bricks. I remember all about what Ikea's really like.

Ikea is sort of like the line to get to America from an obscure border.  Everyone is shuffling around a bunch of junk and not sure where it ends.  And everything is in Spanish which really adds a bit of foreign flare in a Scandinavian landscape. I go salon to salon only to realize that I am surrounded by trash.  I hit the bedding section and feel like I just fucked someone with cheetos breath and tapered jeans.  I go into the kitchen section and pick up forks that bend when I bite on them too hard.  I pass the cafeteria and imagine the diarreah that will strike if I shove a slovic meatball into my gullet.

And so I walk and I walk and I walk, carrying this queer plastic yellow bag stuffed with a $2.49 scented candle and my bottled water, the previous of which I felt obligated to buy until I got to the fake plants with not-a-one thing in my goddamn bag.  

To make matters worse, the person your with always finds something.  So then you wait in line for six hours.  And in my case run back to get beige curtains and trip over a two by four next to a bunk bed on the way (love ya b).

I fucking hate Ikea and there is a reason it sounds like an STD.  The burning feeling before and after just ain't worth it son.

Ghonorkea.