Lasting Drunken Joy
"I have not sucked cock, or munched minge. I am a virgin, pure as snow. " says Tom. "Y'know, honestly, you heard me true. Neither have I slept with woman, man... nor you!"
I ask the sick bastard whether he'd like to sniff my girlfriends undies as some sort of strange compensation for his sexless life. I tell him, "In Japan you can buy these things in vending machines." Cheap too. Not her's in particular, I clarify. But in general - cheap, used vending machine undies for the price of a coke.
"Oh don't we live in the grand age of the automated panty machines. Oh, look at me, I am a panty man, from la la land. And behold!" he points to a old VW Beetle farting away at the green light, "The pinnacle of modern society, of ingenuity, of humanity. All ignorant!"
"You see," I clear my throat and say, "A joke. About that undies thing. As well adjusted humans we delight in humour. It happens."
"You, Ignorant. Cars, ignorant. Her, ignorant. Panties, ignorant. Everybody, ignorant!"
"Will you stop it with the ignorant?" I ask. After a pause, "Hold on. How can cars or panties be ignorant?"
Tom jumps onto a bus stop bench and extends his hands act as if he were a conduit hailing lighting to the earth. Through tears and a clenched jaw he screams, "Ignorantignorantignorantignorantignorantignorantignorantignorantignorantignorantignorant..." The look in his eyes, dear Zeus... a possessed demon in the guise of a 60 year old senile Irish hippie, whipping himself into a tribal frenzy of ignorance.
"Will you shut up," I yell, "Stop it already."
"Will you shut up," he mocks me, "Stop it already. You! Ignorannnnnnnnnttttttttttttttttttt--"
"Ahhhhh," and with a magestic swoop of my arm, I cause his pants to fall to the ground.
And there he stood along Enmore Rd, pantless, silent and gloriously alone. As he walked away with his head down and those dirty pants flopping between his feet the way you'd think a baby's fallen, filthy nappy would, dignity shone deep in his eyes. A dignity beyond external perception, where beneath the fascade a well of understanding as eternal as the blue of his eyes existed.
"You are all ignorant! All of you," he yells at us all, at everybody on the streets, and at the whole world too one could only assume. Struggling with the pants around his ankles he hovels away and whimpers, "I am happy, just as god made me."
Some folks have what you would call lasting drunken joy. Meeting Tom, I thank the good lord every second that I don't.
I ask the sick bastard whether he'd like to sniff my girlfriends undies as some sort of strange compensation for his sexless life. I tell him, "In Japan you can buy these things in vending machines." Cheap too. Not her's in particular, I clarify. But in general - cheap, used vending machine undies for the price of a coke.
"Oh don't we live in the grand age of the automated panty machines. Oh, look at me, I am a panty man, from la la land. And behold!" he points to a old VW Beetle farting away at the green light, "The pinnacle of modern society, of ingenuity, of humanity. All ignorant!"
"You see," I clear my throat and say, "A joke. About that undies thing. As well adjusted humans we delight in humour. It happens."
"You, Ignorant. Cars, ignorant. Her, ignorant. Panties, ignorant. Everybody, ignorant!"
"Will you stop it with the ignorant?" I ask. After a pause, "Hold on. How can cars or panties be ignorant?"
Tom jumps onto a bus stop bench and extends his hands act as if he were a conduit hailing lighting to the earth. Through tears and a clenched jaw he screams, "Ignorantignorantignorantignorantignorantignorantignorantignorantignorantignorantignorant..." The look in his eyes, dear Zeus... a possessed demon in the guise of a 60 year old senile Irish hippie, whipping himself into a tribal frenzy of ignorance.
"Will you shut up," I yell, "Stop it already."
"Will you shut up," he mocks me, "Stop it already. You! Ignorannnnnnnnnttttttttttttttttttt--"
"Ahhhhh," and with a magestic swoop of my arm, I cause his pants to fall to the ground.
And there he stood along Enmore Rd, pantless, silent and gloriously alone. As he walked away with his head down and those dirty pants flopping between his feet the way you'd think a baby's fallen, filthy nappy would, dignity shone deep in his eyes. A dignity beyond external perception, where beneath the fascade a well of understanding as eternal as the blue of his eyes existed.
"You are all ignorant! All of you," he yells at us all, at everybody on the streets, and at the whole world too one could only assume. Struggling with the pants around his ankles he hovels away and whimpers, "I am happy, just as god made me."
Some folks have what you would call lasting drunken joy. Meeting Tom, I thank the good lord every second that I don't.