Friday, July 07, 2006


BUFFALO: Panic over, Birdy, the pea-brained dipshit's alive and well. Just. I was down the Laundromat with Sue, see? The lady who runs the joint. A nicer bit of crumpet I’ve not seen in a raccoon’s age. Check it out, I was laundering about 200 lbs. of musty apparel that had been hanging in the closet since the Plasticine Era (Sgt. Pepper, id est) and she was giving me instructions on how to use her equipment, like.

“My, you’ve been blessed with so many clothes,” she trilled like a songbird, sporting a smile that would melt a Republican’s heart.

I explained that most of the old duds were going to the Salvation Army Thrift Store - that I reckoned they oughta be spiffed up a bit. Her eyes lit up like Christmas trees. She looked up at me like a Cocker Spaniel that wants petting.

“You are a very special man,” she said, with no trace of irony. My heart pumped peanut butter. Choked me up it did.

Then I come home to fookin’ Batman on the third story ledge, screaming obscenities at the neighbors whilst twirling his wrinkled old Freddy in the breeze like a flaming baton. And frantic mothers rushing to cover the eyes of their formerly innocent children who stood in the courtyard with their gazes glued to Sparky's gyrating gizmo, little mouths agape, the whole lot of them traumatized for life, no doubt.

From the sublime to the ridiculous, it was, I tell ya. Sweet Sue at the Laundromat one minute and the next minute this idjit prancing around on a narrow ledge in a gay Halloween costume with his willywonka taking the air and the women fainting in coils.

The fire brigade coaxed him down off the ledge with a bag of Malomars and a poor boy of Muscatel. I managed to persuade them to let him off with a warning this time on accounta he's a deranged Vietnam vet and all. The old Montags have a fierce soft spot for a man in a uniform - even though it's hardly regulation gear. Sparky was all decked out in a pair of black tights with yellow underwear on the outside, ornamented with a Unisex utility belt stocked with small aerosol containers of breath spray. He looked like Adam West on acid in the tights, and the utililty belt made him look like Pancho Villa or Zapata, wrapped in a bandolier. God help me, Birdy, I'm at me wit's end with this crazy-ass fooker. The next time he falls off the wagon I'm taking him to the local taxidermist and having him stuffed.

Sparky's sleeping off the Muscatel now, so I'm off to Harv's Hardware to purchase a heavy duty dead-bolt lock for my bedroom door, if you get m'drift. If you don't hear from me again I've most likely been buggered to death by Batboy.

Beam me up, Scotty...

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