Letter From Harry
My fingertips are killing me. I know that's not one of the body parts I usually complain about, but it turns out that installing peel-and-stick tiles (a better name for which would be "peel, stick, curl up, detach from floor, and finally re-lay using tile adhesive, sold separately, tiles") correctly is a lot harder than slapping them on every which way. I'm not quite sure how I mangled my fingertips, but they feel decidedly tenderized.
Also, I finally bothered to read the product information notes on those sheets of cement backing/flooring board I was gaily cutting up and installing a couple of weeks ago, breathing so much of their dust that my nostrils turned white because I was too lazy and stupid to get a mask. The product information, done in the tiniest possible print, reads like a collaboration between Stephen King and Al Gore: WARNING. WARNING. WARNING. TEASE RATTLESNAKES, PLAY IN INTERSTATE TRAFFIC, AND EAT AT JACQUES-IMO'S IF YOU MUST, BUT WHATEVER YOU DO, DON'T BREATHE THE DUST FROM CUTTING UP THESE TILES. DUST CAUSES CANCER, EVERY LUNG DISEASE KNOWN TO MAN, ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION, BERI-BERI, EBOLA, MUTATIONS, RANDOM DROPPING OFF OF LIMBS, PREMATURE HEAT-DEATH OF THE UNIVERSE, AND PROBABLY AN EXTRA HEAD OR TWO. IF YOU'RE NOT DEAD ALREADY JUST FROM READING THIS, YOU WILL BE REALSOONNOW. SUCKER. DON'TCHA WISH YOU'D JUST USED PLYWOOD?
So I am tired and in a unique sort of pain today, not to mention probably dying. I give you only this e-mail from my friend Harry, a large and hard-assed (real hard-assed, not NBA-player-hard-assed) former cop, who stayed in New Orleans through the storm and the failure of the federal levees (in fact, I picked up that obsessive "failure of the federal levees" phrase from him), leaving only to take his elderly parents to Houston when the water began to engulf their home. Harry remains committed to the city eighteen months later despite its having broken his heart, if anything, more times than it has broken mine. I guess you'd call this his open letter to the anonymous crybaby mentioned in last night's "Whine Country" post:
I don't know who the pussy is but if you can, tell him I will personally supply him with a year's worth of tampons.
But, I have to put them in.
And if he does not possess a pussy although he is a pussy, I will make the appropriate orifice for him.
Coward motherfucker.
And that goes for you too, Tracy McGrady, you droopy-eyed old stiff.
P.S. For the record, I have different memories of the Great Crawfish Boil Salad Race. While I may well have been "liquored up and blabbing" to Danny, I don't believe Commander's Palace needs to steal ideas from Chris, and besides, dude, I happen to really like getting the VIP treatment there, so how's about a little tact? Oh dear, I just knew he was going to run amok with this blog thing.
Also, I finally bothered to read the product information notes on those sheets of cement backing/flooring board I was gaily cutting up and installing a couple of weeks ago, breathing so much of their dust that my nostrils turned white because I was too lazy and stupid to get a mask. The product information, done in the tiniest possible print, reads like a collaboration between Stephen King and Al Gore: WARNING. WARNING. WARNING. TEASE RATTLESNAKES, PLAY IN INTERSTATE TRAFFIC, AND EAT AT JACQUES-IMO'S IF YOU MUST, BUT WHATEVER YOU DO, DON'T BREATHE THE DUST FROM CUTTING UP THESE TILES. DUST CAUSES CANCER, EVERY LUNG DISEASE KNOWN TO MAN, ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION, BERI-BERI, EBOLA, MUTATIONS, RANDOM DROPPING OFF OF LIMBS, PREMATURE HEAT-DEATH OF THE UNIVERSE, AND PROBABLY AN EXTRA HEAD OR TWO. IF YOU'RE NOT DEAD ALREADY JUST FROM READING THIS, YOU WILL BE REALSOONNOW. SUCKER. DON'TCHA WISH YOU'D JUST USED PLYWOOD?
So I am tired and in a unique sort of pain today, not to mention probably dying. I give you only this e-mail from my friend Harry, a large and hard-assed (real hard-assed, not NBA-player-hard-assed) former cop, who stayed in New Orleans through the storm and the failure of the federal levees (in fact, I picked up that obsessive "failure of the federal levees" phrase from him), leaving only to take his elderly parents to Houston when the water began to engulf their home. Harry remains committed to the city eighteen months later despite its having broken his heart, if anything, more times than it has broken mine. I guess you'd call this his open letter to the anonymous crybaby mentioned in last night's "Whine Country" post:
I don't know who the pussy is but if you can, tell him I will personally supply him with a year's worth of tampons.
But, I have to put them in.
And if he does not possess a pussy although he is a pussy, I will make the appropriate orifice for him.
Coward motherfucker.
And that goes for you too, Tracy McGrady, you droopy-eyed old stiff.
P.S. For the record, I have different memories of the Great Crawfish Boil Salad Race. While I may well have been "liquored up and blabbing" to Danny, I don't believe Commander's Palace needs to steal ideas from Chris, and besides, dude, I happen to really like getting the VIP treatment there, so how's about a little tact? Oh dear, I just knew he was going to run amok with this blog thing.