So, around 4:00 this morning I found myself in an emergency room in the Bronx, surrounded by skateboarding orderlies and holiday shoppers in Christmas sweaters. Things didn’t get officially weird, though, until Janet Jackson walked in, sporting that cheap-looking, malfunctional PVC Superbowl getup and pushing someone in a wheelchair that looked suspiciously like Mahatma Gandhi. Ms. Jackson (as I call her because I, of course, am nasty), leaned over her patient and gave me a creeptacular Cheshire grin, causing every wrinkle in her prematurely aged body to stand out like pleats in a Balenciaga ruched silk ball gown, only not as pretty. It was shocking, awesome, and inspiring–well, in that it inspired a petit haiku:
Lips like fat earthworms,
Sharp Chicklet teeth and lifeless brow:
Bitch has had work done
That’s the last time I down a family-size bag of Zapp’s and a six pack right before bed.
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