(what's that smell?)
had a lovely weekend in the country with mancat and his family, the kind hosts they were. i introduced his niece to hector, my favorite snail, this evening at the lake: 'do you want to meet my friend hector?' 'ok.' 'um... [pointing at random lake snail] oh there he is! hector! wow, what a guy.' 'oh. i know hector. and there is mimi. she's a boy.' (well she seems to have gotten gay studies down at the ripe old age of three...)
and i met norm and kiki too, by the way.
on the way back, we stopped off at the kwik-e-mart that was near the speedway. mancat needed to, um, see a man about a horse, so i got the obligatory 'would you mind if we used your restroom?' purchase of chips and drinks. i decided i needed to buy a horse too, so i get in queue behind some woman who wore far too much patchouli. the woman who arrived behind me had the 2004 race for the parks t-shirt on, and i felt a connection to her (central park, by the way), but realized i must have been staring at her chest for the longer than the 'are you looking at my t-shirt or my tits' threshold, so she blushes and looks at her feet, and so i look away. i glance to the aptly placed new york times, as does she, and suddenly we both groan when we got to the part of the front page that says that the person who the brits shot on friday who they thought to be in connection with the bombings was actually not. run-for-the-parks and i had a moment, and to solidify it, that i wasn't after her boobies, i flamed off my ass as i handed mancat my chips when he left the restroom: 'ooh, hon, i got APPLE! juice! your FAVEY! see you in the car in a jiffy-pop!' to put my 'see,-i-didn't-defile-your tits!' running companion at ease. mancat just lifted his his left eyebrow and suggested that we should hurry up. just then i realized that the rednecks in the pick-ups had a new target, so i bought (or sold or whatever it is one does when one sees a man about a horse) as quickly as possible and got the hell out of there.
the trip back was nice. brittany or muffy or what-WAS-her name nearly killed us in her land-rover-from-manhattan on the ride: put DOWN the cel, sweetie. they're illegal in cars for a reason-- you're swerving like a kennedy. but i'm sure her toxic blondness will pickle her brain far before her 'driving' skills, cel and all...
mancat was kind enough to drop me off at my flophouse, and took the west side highway to do so. 'smell that?' 'yeah. what the hell is that?' 'well, the garbage drop-off is right there.' 'hon, it was a mile back. does it always smell like this?' 'i don't know. i just don't know.'
and then i realized i'm home.
and i met norm and kiki too, by the way.
on the way back, we stopped off at the kwik-e-mart that was near the speedway. mancat needed to, um, see a man about a horse, so i got the obligatory 'would you mind if we used your restroom?' purchase of chips and drinks. i decided i needed to buy a horse too, so i get in queue behind some woman who wore far too much patchouli. the woman who arrived behind me had the 2004 race for the parks t-shirt on, and i felt a connection to her (central park, by the way), but realized i must have been staring at her chest for the longer than the 'are you looking at my t-shirt or my tits' threshold, so she blushes and looks at her feet, and so i look away. i glance to the aptly placed new york times, as does she, and suddenly we both groan when we got to the part of the front page that says that the person who the brits shot on friday who they thought to be in connection with the bombings was actually not. run-for-the-parks and i had a moment, and to solidify it, that i wasn't after her boobies, i flamed off my ass as i handed mancat my chips when he left the restroom: 'ooh, hon, i got APPLE! juice! your FAVEY! see you in the car in a jiffy-pop!' to put my 'see,-i-didn't-defile-your tits!' running companion at ease. mancat just lifted his his left eyebrow and suggested that we should hurry up. just then i realized that the rednecks in the pick-ups had a new target, so i bought (or sold or whatever it is one does when one sees a man about a horse) as quickly as possible and got the hell out of there.
the trip back was nice. brittany or muffy or what-WAS-her name nearly killed us in her land-rover-from-manhattan on the ride: put DOWN the cel, sweetie. they're illegal in cars for a reason-- you're swerving like a kennedy. but i'm sure her toxic blondness will pickle her brain far before her 'driving' skills, cel and all...
mancat was kind enough to drop me off at my flophouse, and took the west side highway to do so. 'smell that?' 'yeah. what the hell is that?' 'well, the garbage drop-off is right there.' 'hon, it was a mile back. does it always smell like this?' 'i don't know. i just don't know.'
and then i realized i'm home.
posted by tom at 3:00 PM
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