So it’s a Friday night, right? You are supposed to be staying in to help a friend move the next day, so you go and get yourself some good take out and watch a movie. Half way through the movie you remember you have 4 beers left in the fridge and you have one. Just the one, Mrs. Wembley, because you have got to get up early the following morning…

After you have drunk all 4 beers, you get bored and antsy and so find yourself arriving at a bar, half-cocked, to find someone to talk to…

Within 5 minutes of sitting down, the guy sitting next to you turns and asks, “why the fuck did you do that to your face?” You know from experience, that he is talking about your nose rings, but you continue to talk to him because you realise that he is Scottish and so you have the foreigner bond…

After 3 more beers, the Scotsman tries to get you to go to another bar with him. You say you will, but then the Fabulous bartender starts to entertain you and since the world is Fabulous to him and he is not seething with that terribly popular bitterness, you realise that it would be infinitely more enjoyable to stay put. Besides, he’s a bartender and they are god. On top of that he wasn’t rude about your appearance and laughed because he has an inability to pronounce peugeot…

So, the next day you discover that the Scotsman has left 5 messages on your answerphone. The first 4 are from the wee hours of Saturday morning and the final one is punctuated by him flatly stating that you are an English cunt, (to reiterate, not in a Tankie Cunty way), for standing him up. The fifth was left at noon on Saturday.

Now, to clarify, once you have called someone an English cunt, that generally suffices to end the conversation. That’s it. The end. No more.

So why the 5th telephone call on Saturday afternoon?

And why the 6th and 7th on Sunday evening?

And why the 8th on Monday afternoon?

Why?

Why?

Why..?

September 1st, 2003 | Category: Philadelphia, Unsanity | Subscribe to comments | Comments are currently closed | Trackback URL