You’ve Got to Be Shitting Me
In this post , our not-all-that-secret blog crush points us to this , which makes us feel not so alone anymore.
Seriously, we have asked everyone we’ve ever met if bookstores make them poop, and people always looks at us like we’re crazy. Used bookstores, like The Strand, are the worst offenders. It’s as though Samuel Clemens is piloting a riverboat of cocky down our gastrointestinal tract, while Jane Austen looks on from the muddy banks, furitively
Our guess is, the culprit is either some kind of magical poop mite that lives in the dust generated by all that old paper, or we’re just conditioned to associate printed matter with taking a smash. Actually, since women also seem to have the same reaction, and since they never bring reading material into the shitter with them, we’re going to assume that the latter is just a matter of coincidence. Of course, the primary difference is that when girls poop, rose petals come out. And corn. And poop.
Oh, and: In a doomed bid to make her think we were incorruptible, for the first year we lived with the Former Girlfriend of Sakebomb, we used to travel 20 blocks to the nearest Barnes & Noble whenever we had to poop. If that’s not love we don’t know what is.
In other news, we are suffering the kind of hangover normally associated with discharging automatic weapons in day care centers. At present, we are chasing a pile of Oxycontin down with a tiny airplane bottle of Stoli Gooseberry that we’ve kept squirreled away inside our desk drawer for just such an occasion. Oh, sweet Death, come pick us up in your Mustang 5.0 and we will do lawn jobs at Silvia Plath’s house.
This is the place what done us in. It’s got the best jukebox in the Slope––it’s the only place we know of where you can play “Where Eagles Dare” by the Misfits (“I ain’t no goddamn son of a bitch/You’d better think about it baby”) and follow it up with Arvo Pärt’s Litany and not get your head kicked in––and it’s positively festooned with corny “goth” nonsense. Commanding significant real estate is that old standby, the screaming skulls with wings jutting out of the sides that delight metalheads, punks and retardees alike. Besides the gift of flight, the skulls without fail tend to be ablaze, mysteriously generating a particularly tenacious brand of hellfire from within their boney carapaces. One day we are going to consult a physicist to see what kind of airspeed would need to be generated in order to make bone combust, but our guess is that those wings have a certain infernal power to them that can’t be measured by puny human science.