Alone to fend for myself this evening, I opted to dine out rather than wreck the kitchen. This decision rendered the dog out of luck. When I eat out, he gets dog food. For a fleeting instance, he nearly received spaghetti; then, of course, I came to my senses. Spaghetti? That's like two dirty pots, a plate and some silverware. With the Liberal, Butt Fscking New York Times in hand, I departed to the local coffee shop. Limey had a package of diced lamb.
"I don't know why you call him Limey," the neighbor kid used to say, "because he's not green." My wife explained that he's an English Bulldog and Limey is slang for a British seaman. That is too difficult for a waist-high person to grasp. "He used to be," I said.
His mother liked to screw men with the windows open. And the cab driver next door liked to go down on her. He would tote a bottle of cheap liquor to her apartment although he never drank. Later, as I left the dog out, I'd be granted far too many details. We live in the suburbs now where people pull the shades tight. I've grown to like it here.
In the suburbs, parents take children to the coffee shop. They're like regular people only shorter. Like Jane Goodall spying on primates, I've gleaned insight from these small bi-peds running around with their thumbs grabbing things you don't want them to grab. Habits that you've grown to abhor in adults were pretty much honed in childhood.
Before departure, I went to the bathroom to take a leak. Under normal circumstances, this information would be withheld from the story; in this case it's crucial to the plot. Enroute, an ugly chick with a spray bottle emerged of the ladies' room. Most of the girls that work in the coffee shop are fairly attractive. It was not difficult to note that the ugly chick drew toilet duty. In Manhattan they would say that she didn't have "front office presence."
In the bathroom, a flush sounded it the stall. A child emerged from the toilet and walked past me. He exited without washing his hands. Outside I found the little bi-ped clasped to his mother's thumb. "Is that your kid?" I asked. Yeah, right, like maybe she was watching it for someone else. Of course it was her kid. She knodded. "Why don't you make him go back in there and wash his hands?"
"Excuse me?" she said.
"He didn't wash his hands in there."
"Well, why should you care?"
"For one thing, I had to pull the door handle after he used it...."
"I don't think my child is any of your business," she said.
I walked back to my car in the rain....
Okay, it didn't actually rain last night. Precipitation at this juncture allows me to play Lt. Henry at the end of A Farewell To Arms. But in this story, Catherine survives child birth. The sky shed no rain. But it was really windy.
