At all costs, I'm just trying to avoid eye

  • At all costs, I'm just trying to avoid eye contact. I can handle the repugnant smell and deal with the abhorrent facial sores. But if that guy next to me on the bus starts to
  • play his ukulele, I'm going to lose my shit entirely. Well, he starts to play, I lose my shit & I'M THE ONE THAT GETS KICKED OFF. Which is how I ended up wandering down this street
  • desperately searching for a bar with live music. The warm tones of the ukulele still echoed in my head, but all I could find was a sleazy bar with a death metal band. It would have
  • been fine if I hadn't recognized the lead head-banger: my AUNT VALETTA! I always knew she could sing, but I didn't know she could scream! Black leather does not become her.
  • Worse, Aunt Valetta's hair was dyed a weird shade of turqoise. Her concert over, she said "This way, babe!", put on a black helmet & made me mount a Harley-Davidson behind her. WTF
  • was tattooed on the back of her neck and she smelled sour but saintly. She grabbed my arms and wrapped them around her coming down, not briefly, on my tits and then connecting at
  • someone else's fingertips, which had just handled several packages and some paper money that previously left the hands of a particularly unsavory cab driver who lived on
  • The empty lot behind the fieldhouse, among the sausages and field roasts. His fingertips were nbered ,#3773684-3773794. The eleventh finger lurked maliciously among the sausages.
  • Its job is to foment unrest among the sausages and for them to question how they were made. They were about to find out how politics is made as well. I felt sorry for the sausages.
  • So I told them saccharine tales of how they were seasoned & extruded into casings by a supreme sausage in the sky who loved them like children. They didn't believe me for a minute.


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