2004-10-21 - 12:34 a.m.
This weekend, pictures have been taken at the beach of a girl insistant on getting her breasts evenly colored along with her arms. My boys have tried to keep up a certain level of decency up, but should you look in the background of their pictures of elder employees you'll see thongs and loosed tops. The fact remains that Miami has remained one insistant quest for the crotch and I've barely throw an inning.
Surrounded by lightning on all sides, to the left, right and just in front of me, I can sit happily staring over the ocean, barreling in it's usual waves despire the light show decorating all sides of me. Ladies and gents call their friends in from the water, while I sit quietly smoking, and ditching my butts into the sand that is making a strong offensive move into my boots. Carring at least three fifths of the beach home with me, I walk Ocean drive. Club after club, each so well known that I've seen three in the Justin and Kelly movie. (Damn HBO for playing that steaming piece of shit.) It takes thirteen innnings to find a bar localed by people who actiually work in these parts, 'ere.
I should have known, looking down on a discarded Algebra textbook on the corner of Ocean and eighth, that this would not be the place of overly intellectual discussion.
With so many months loggeed in the dregs of New York, it becomes expected that anyone you might face will catch a reference to Bill Maher, and his impact on the current ellection, but dispite full explination, I could not make the comparison to the aging dancer atop our table to the lead actress of Hollywood Blvd., despite multiple I'm ready for my close up now Mr. Dimille references.
Latina's bunched into the tightest of all clothing, flaunting themselves on the edge of the beach, with barely five inches of material covering their most sensitive of parts, I stand on hold. I learned to dance swing but that doesn't mean a damn in the land of the hips. Stanidng five eight, anglo to the ends of the earth, and as per expectaions, without any hips, I can do nothing when the bongos jump in.
I scribbled before the ever expanding score of the Red Sox, with only one over the shoulder drop of awe, who may have only stood in gawk-eyed wonder because of my use of "Cunt."
"If I go home without fucking some bitch, then I might as well turn in my balls."
This chourus I've heard all weekend, as my particular package stands bowed and wel wrapped, nearly eight mounths of practice.
Give me another month and I'm sure I'll grow back my hyman.
Even if I didn't have one.
IN the end, who really cares about a man who can quote Nitche, when there are so many with pecs and perfect tans.
I feel, left to my own devices, it is best I relagate my sexual tendencies to my enlarged shower stall. (It was made for two, not that I'd have the oppertunity to test that theory.)
My play closes on the the second draft as those stunned around it's wake, look on to the television, or the breasts presented on the end of the bar.
I wave the white flag.
Those of the female persuaision...you win. I've had enough.
Enough of trying to make something out of nothing.
Enough of dreaming.
Enough of all of it.
Show me a caring man and I'm switching sides. THere are more than enough cat calls, and cold cackles to force me into the pecs of another.
If only I could find solace in those nipples.
Bad French: Se La VI...
5 Letters to the Editor