That's Just The Booze Talking

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

Wait Until Dork



Couple things.

First, our scary Drug Lord neighbor across the street––we call him American History X because he looks like Ed Norton’s buffy tuffy White Supremecist, down to the Hitleriffic neck tat––launched a fireworks attack at our building last night which left us feeling a little like Francis Scott Key, only instead of being inspired to compose “The Star-Spangled Whatever,” we threw together this***. Dude sent about 30 bottle rockets up and over the front of our Z-Bricked façade and into the backyard, causing the landlord’s dog to shit on the patio in abject horror. Or maybe he just used the barrage as an excuse to shit on the patio. He’s an asshole that way. Anyway, he followed that fusillade with a bunch of flares, one of which landed on the roof and made some wildly disconcerting You’re-Going-To-Be-Homeless-in-an-Hour sounds. After the attack ended, my landlord timidly went out into the street to inquire as to why, exactly, dude was getting all Ft. Sumter up in our piece. His response: Mind your own beeswax, more or less, only instead of those exact words, just yell motherfucker over and over again and suggest that if anyone were to, say, call the authorities, that same person might be divested of many pearly whites and would have to gather them from the macadam with “two fucking broken arms.” So. And then a really uncomfortable 10 minutes went by, a sort of oh-sweet-Lord-what’s-he-going-to-do now period that was brought to a halt by the explosion of an incendiary device that sounded a little like dude duct-taped a dozen cherry bombs to John Madden’s scrotum. This basically left an infant-sized hole in the road, shattered the side windows of the car parked immediately to the right of the blast and set off every car alarm within a two-block radius. Somewhere, the Founding Fathers are dispatching their spectral footmen to convey their apologies to King George III. “Sorry, Old Bean. Didn’t realize that everyone would turn out completely retarded. Snuggles, Thom. and a J with a squiggly line and an ‘s’ that looks like a fucked-up ‘f.’”

Earlier, we repaired to La Strega to watch the Azzurri kick three kinds of shit out of Germany in the World Cup semi. Victory aside, our favorite moment was when ESPN ran an ad for Time Warner Cable’s pay-per-view service featuring clips from the remake of The Producers. “Springtime for Hitler” segued into a crowd shot of about a half million flag-waving Germans that had gathered outside of the stadium, which prompted the old Italian guy next to us to remark, “Oh no. Now they start marching.” This was accompanied by his approximation of what can only be characterized as Disco Goosestepping, a routine that was marred only by his constant juggling of his cell phone, which was glued to his ear throughout the match and into which he kept shouting inscrutable bursts of commentary, and the omnipresent cigarette, which he used to punctuate every one of his gnomic utterances. When he was done with the pantomime, our new friend returned to his barstool and began rhapsodizing on what Uma Thurman’s vagina must taste like. The weird consensus: Figs.

*** If you don’t happen to pick this up in the first few bars, the name of this song is “Fist Fuck.” It is performed by the California hardcore band Dr. Know, and should be played at top volume in your office if your HR guy is cool with that sort of thing.