adv comp story with annelise
There is nothing like a drunken bum on a Saturday night, wearing an avocado-print tie, preaching you responsibility as he slurs the gospel. “Bill Murray is my idol,” he explains, his pinky extending outward from his brandy glass, which, for some inconceivable reason, is stained with all shades of lipstick imaginable.
“Ever since he made that film-- The Passion of the Christ-- I’ve known him to be the messiah,” he garbles, with the candid tone I’ve known of no other evangelist.
The bum continued to ramble on about his new religion, Billmurrayism, as he pointed a decrepit finger at his empty glass, as if I could somehow refill it.
I was tired and it was late, so I decided to go along with his little reality, and inquired about the doctrine of Billmurrayism. He readily explained to me that it mostly entails watching Groundhog’s Day, Caddyshack, and Charlie’s Angels regularly-- that is one’s only true path to salvation.
“He was in Osmosis Jones,” said the bum pointedly, coughing softly and sickly.
He stopped. There was silence.
He looked at the rafters of the tavern.
“Where are ya Bill? I see ya! Forgive me, Bill, for I have sinned.”
I slowly followed his unfaltering gaze to the place his eyes were wide upon and found myself looking at a gargoyle.
“Oh,” I said.
The bum began to quote Lost in Translation with the fervor of someone speaking in tongues as he picked up his shoddy brandy glass and then gave a toast to Bill.
“Here I take up a holy brandy of Bill, and I guzzle it down until nothing remains.”
He then split a beer nut, and rose it up in his palms as an offering to the gargoyle.
“Ever since he made that film-- The Passion of the Christ-- I’ve known him to be the messiah,” he garbles, with the candid tone I’ve known of no other evangelist.
The bum continued to ramble on about his new religion, Billmurrayism, as he pointed a decrepit finger at his empty glass, as if I could somehow refill it.
I was tired and it was late, so I decided to go along with his little reality, and inquired about the doctrine of Billmurrayism. He readily explained to me that it mostly entails watching Groundhog’s Day, Caddyshack, and Charlie’s Angels regularly-- that is one’s only true path to salvation.
“He was in Osmosis Jones,” said the bum pointedly, coughing softly and sickly.
He stopped. There was silence.
He looked at the rafters of the tavern.
“Where are ya Bill? I see ya! Forgive me, Bill, for I have sinned.”
I slowly followed his unfaltering gaze to the place his eyes were wide upon and found myself looking at a gargoyle.
“Oh,” I said.
The bum began to quote Lost in Translation with the fervor of someone speaking in tongues as he picked up his shoddy brandy glass and then gave a toast to Bill.
“Here I take up a holy brandy of Bill, and I guzzle it down until nothing remains.”
He then split a beer nut, and rose it up in his palms as an offering to the gargoyle.