BLACK LIST FRIDAY
If you were to knock me out and lay me on a cadaver table and cut me into slices of even thickness like a holiday ham or a low-rent Damien Hirst art project–not that you would, but if you did–and you put me under a microscope, you’d find that I’m composed of the following elements, in order of prominence:
Oxygen: 61%
Carbon: 23%
Hydrogen: 10%
Wheat Thins: 2%
Beer (the bad kind): 1%
Puppy dog tails: .5%
Sweetbreads: .3%
Magnesium, boron, germanium, and potting soil: trace
In the past 24 hours, however, something has shifted. You might almost say I’m suffering from a chemical imbalance (and you wouldn’t be the first). Today, I consist of nearly 99% pure rage.
The good news is, that rage is [probably] not directed at you. The bad news is, I can’t legally assassinate any of the folks to whom it is directed. I can, however, name names–or, since most of said folks are strangers to moi, I can offer reasonably detailed descriptions of them and their random acts of idiocy. I therefore give you the following list of people who must die immediately:
1. The woman in the silver dualie with New Jersey plates who was trying to parallel park the damn thing (a) in the Quarter (b) in a space six inches shorter than your average Geo Metro.
2. The big-boned secretary in the Hawaiian print blouse who lit a Virginia Slims Menthol 100 and stepped into traffic just as my light was turning green. (If the cancer doesn’t kill you baby, I will. And quicker.)
3. The owner of The Darkroom. He knows why.
4. The blondined queen who cut in front of me at the deli and grabbed the last roast beef po-boy with pepper jack. (I, however, got the last Tab, which provided a modicum of consolation.)
5. The three leading mayoral candidates, each of whom said he’d attend my event last night and each of whom bailed. (I did, however, get Virginia Boulet and James Arey, both of whom are very nice, despite their, shall we say, longshot status.)
6. The three dumbasses from Texas who decided to block traffic on Royal Street during rush hour so they could unload a crappy Sanyo stereo and speakers into their new FEMA-sponsored digs. I mean, who has stereos anymore?
7. The hooker and john who were having a very animated discussion involving a broken beer bottle and allegations of the former’s abuse of controlled substances–all while I was innocently attempting to navigate the sidewalk at 6pm last night.
Anything you can do to avenge my good name and my mental well-being would be thoroughly appreciated. I’m just sayin’.
sturtle [dot] com 