Rhymes with mope
Anyone? Anyone know what this is? A bar of something. What is this something? This green thing over here...This thing on the towel. One syllable...rhymes with Mope. Okay, this is Soap. It also comes in liquid form but that should in no way deter you from securing several bars or dispensers immediately.
You're going to have to explain it to me. And I know I looked like a cranky old man today. I'm sorry. I'm 36. And while there exists quite plainly a dichotomy in my personality where I will have moments of exceptional immaturity, I will also have the opposite. And today was one of those days.When Stephanie invited us to the free Girl Talk concert on the Williamsburg Waterfront, we figured "Why not?" We hadn't seen her in a while, she hadn't met Roxy yet, the weather cleared up for a bit, bla bla bla. And that part was fine. Seeing Stephanie and Pam was fine.
It was you that was terrible. I've never seen a community collectively try so desperately to be hip and filthy at the same time. Seriously. Adults playing Dodgeball? In the sand? Outside? In 90 degree heat? In silver mylar pants?!! What the hell is wrong with you? Is there some Bermuda Triangle type thing going on between Greenpoint and the Brooklyn Navy Yard (I guess that would be more like The Bermuda Line, only not in Bermuda) that deprives you all of oxygen and reason?
Who told you it was acceptable to dress like this? A ruffled Victorian blouse, cut-off jean shorts, and tube socks pulled all the way up. A fedora, Elvis glasses, oversized basketball shorts and saddle shoes. It's like you all hired the same stylist: some guy's 6 year old nephew who spent too much time in his parents drycleaning business as a toddler who just smiles and gives you two-thumbs-covered-in-peanut-butter-up no matter what you put on. "What do you like better? The cowboy hat...or the colander...cowboy hat...colander...Colander? Alright!"
I would be hard pressed, and I mean this, genuinely, but I would be hard pressed to be convinced that you hadn't, all of you, together, burgled some high school drama department, stealing costumes from decades of performances of Our Town, Bye Bye Birdie, Hurlyburly, The Tempest, it didn't matter, and then dragged all of those old trunks into a big pile right in the middle of Bedford Avenue, and then ravaged them, stealing away from the chaos with whatever you were able to clench tightly in your hands.
I'm flummoxed. Because not only do you dress ridiculous, you also look dirty. Not sexy dirty. Filthy. Like, don't get any in your mucus membranes filthy. Which is sad because even the Mole People shower. They keep themselves clean and they live in the subway tunnels, for Christ's sake. $2200 a month loft, smelly and skanky. Corrugated house under the 4 train, dressed in a smile and ready to face the (under)world.
Seriously. I think the universe would rip apart and spill dark matter onto the Earth if even one person in Williamsburg dared to wash and match on the same day. And yes, consider that a challenge.
So, just to reiterate:
RID (for pubic lice).
Best of luck,
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Reincarnation of a Scribbler...2004-01-15 11:26:12 by ImAnAsshole
Reincarnation of a Scribbler,
Reincarnation of a Bard
In my next life I'll be a bard.
Ill memorize my words and rhymes,
And keep the rhythm for a change.
Ill play on the street, flute, for dimes.
(And sing and act, to show em range.)
In an attic, across the boulevard,
Hell sit and scratch his beard, and mope.
A pen, a blank page, a notion-
A pot of coffee, a bag of dope,
Outside his window, emotion.
The men will laugh and give me cash,
The women will flirt and flitter.
While in his room, the poet (so rash!)
Jumps out the window to litter
The street with his corpse. The dash
Will take him to the better form,
That other life is too forlorn.
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