So, because I’m classy, I was in one of the classier boites in the downtown area. And by classy I mean there was no blood on the floor. Yet.
I’d never been here before so was unaware of the amount of class that oozed from it’s feted walls. Whatever varnish was on the floor has long been scraped off by the shuffling soles of long dead men’s shoes.
I’m sitting next to a classy gentleman who was glaring into the ether mumbling what could be classical sonnets when a classy lady wearing a muumuu and what could be best classified as a fright wig bellowed something unintelligible to everyone, except herself, before lifting up her muumuu to display what can best be described as a 1970’s era porno muff.
Classy! Thou is on display today.
Her crotch looked like something a bridge troll would reject as being just too damn scary.
With many folks averting their eyes to avoid blindness while others brayed in fits of abject horror, I remained calm allowing the fracas to wash over me like a warm summer day. At the beach. After a nuclear meltdown. And a tsunami. Which broke apart a graveyard. And all the bodies washed ashore. During low tide. And the bathhouse is closed for renovation so you’ll never get the stench off your flip-flops.
Do you see my level of tolerance for the world around me? Astounding, ain’t it?
This whirling dervish finally catches up with her innate dizziness and comes to a complete stop staring and panting in my general direction. I smile at her a comforting smile that, hopefully, conveys my sentiment of, “One step closer and I’ll taze ya.” Sorry, even my tolerance has its limits. I look at her for a second, bush billowing in the breeze, and ask,
“Do you need a scrunchie for that thing?”