a few small things
"Smails!!"
So I just got off from closing that bar where I work, I won't say the name, but you know the one: the one in South Tampa that smells like a diaper full of shrimp left outside for weeks by a morose and sadistic garbage man... the garbage man who sat for a while outside the closed bar, sometime during the second or third week, and smoked some dirtweed he found in the ash buckets of the stanky bar; greenish brown moist crumbs that tasted like cat butt and girly puke... but he smoked it anyway because he had a rough week dealing with his wife's change-o-life and his daughter being a rug muncher and his secret society (but really the Moose Lodge on the corner) hounding him for his $45 in yearly dues and threatening to cut off his pre-blue hour Bloody Marys on Sunday morning, drank on the sly before going to Bible class and Sunday Service and then the Promise Keeper meetings he only attended so he could retain some sense of his long dormant superiority manliness.
The morose and sadistic garbage man's name may well be Cyrus, but I don't know for sure. I could be pulling this all out of my ass. Sometimes when Cyrus is especially early or exceedingly late, the cleaning up crew employed by this rancid shithole bar is still lurking about on the premises. Indeed, the crew is attempting to appear busy enough to the myriad hidden cameras to appease the pseudo-jew owner, so he would hand over their brown sacks full of desiccated and sticky unmarked bills every third Tuesday, with a lack or a least a diminishment of his usual bitching and moaning about how the jews always get taken advantage of, and the cleaning crew should just be thankful he has a great accountant who has no need to see their green cards. The cleaning crew is captained by a Bangladeshi immigrant named Boko Butu, who is legally blind and has no sense of smell; which little does he know actually is a blessing instead of a curse, instead of the caste lowering embarrassing debility that he thinks it is. He has passed over the same half eaten chicken wing, moldering under the middle pool table, for about ten days now. Said chicken wing is probably by now in the midst of affirming its existence, reading the major works of Kirkegaarde and denying the dorks from being its friends on myspace.
I am a silly girl with an overactive imagination.
So I just got off from closing that bar where I work, I won't say the name, but you know the one: the one in South Tampa that smells like a diaper full of shrimp left outside for weeks by a morose and sadistic garbage man... the garbage man who sat for a while outside the closed bar, sometime during the second or third week, and smoked some dirtweed he found in the ash buckets of the stanky bar; greenish brown moist crumbs that tasted like cat butt and girly puke... but he smoked it anyway because he had a rough week dealing with his wife's change-o-life and his daughter being a rug muncher and his secret society (but really the Moose Lodge on the corner) hounding him for his $45 in yearly dues and threatening to cut off his pre-blue hour Bloody Marys on Sunday morning, drank on the sly before going to Bible class and Sunday Service and then the Promise Keeper meetings he only attended so he could retain some sense of his long dormant superiority manliness.
The morose and sadistic garbage man's name may well be Cyrus, but I don't know for sure. I could be pulling this all out of my ass. Sometimes when Cyrus is especially early or exceedingly late, the cleaning up crew employed by this rancid shithole bar is still lurking about on the premises. Indeed, the crew is attempting to appear busy enough to the myriad hidden cameras to appease the pseudo-jew owner, so he would hand over their brown sacks full of desiccated and sticky unmarked bills every third Tuesday, with a lack or a least a diminishment of his usual bitching and moaning about how the jews always get taken advantage of, and the cleaning crew should just be thankful he has a great accountant who has no need to see their green cards. The cleaning crew is captained by a Bangladeshi immigrant named Boko Butu, who is legally blind and has no sense of smell; which little does he know actually is a blessing instead of a curse, instead of the caste lowering embarrassing debility that he thinks it is. He has passed over the same half eaten chicken wing, moldering under the middle pool table, for about ten days now. Said chicken wing is probably by now in the midst of affirming its existence, reading the major works of Kirkegaarde and denying the dorks from being its friends on myspace.
I am a silly girl with an overactive imagination.