suicide girls? more like recipe girls.
after going to this bizarre white tunnel of a bar and blowing $80 on gin myself, and trying to tell this stripper that i thought her tits were just fine, alex takes me to this club where the floor boy looks like michael wincott except with a big patch of grey hair up front, this white pinstripe vest, and black and white patent leather boots. search me. the guy was comping us drinks for the balance of the night, so i wasn't about to call him on looking like a pirate in one of jean paul gaultier's dreams. thing is, this place was filled with all of these punk rock lesbians. why they so angry? why they gotta hate? honey if i wanted to date you i'd just come out and say so. i'm cool if you like the ladies. i like the ladies, too. i'm just trying to be polite and make small talk. and trying to find out where you got that cheap fucking house dress, and what queef convinced you that you looked good in it.
anyway, the moral of the story is: finish the night with what you started. for me friday night is usually a simple white liquor night, but alex insists on capping the night with a few of these "fine and dandies." it's like a melted orange popsicle but straight booze. fuck's sake was i cross-eyed. i kept trying to talk about charlie parker and lester young with my friend april, but i couldn't get the word "charlie" out of my mouth without slobbering like a bull mastiff. i hate being so drunk that i'm completely cognizant of my inability to speak. she was so sweet about it though. she goes: "tommy, it's cool. just say bird instead." god bless you april.
yesterday i presumed i could fight back the hangover with a couple of key lime margaritas while watching the ponies. smarty fucking jones. my ass. even if he *did* win you'd have still lost money. the worst part was that i was surrounded by all of these horrible hipsters that, in addition to being dumb enough to place bets on smarty at 2 - 5 odds, kept making fun of my bike. it's a lo lo you dipshits, and yes, it is so so *so* much sweeter than your vintage vespa.
on that note, let me just say that my contribution to the u.s. army suggestion box is that instead of bombing vieques, do us all a favor bomb north williamsburg out to graham avenue.
the coup de gras was that after sneering at my bike, one of the nu-mullet spectators started ripping on the horse with the yellow number and the jockey awash in teal. what was his name? oh that's right, birdstone. well guess what dickface? that animal managed to fart in smarty's face just as he crossed the finish line. sucka. always beat on teal.
http://www.russianturkishbaths.com/enter.html
thank god for this place. and thank god that fucking RUSSELL SIMMONS was kicking it there yesterday when i went. i kept thinking at some point his manservants would roll in, and he'd bust out the bubbly. you know. it's russell simmons. doesn't he big pimp everywhere he goes? you'd think so. i'm all like, "hey. russ. how's the wife?" and he just nods and starts doing some sort of yoga. yoga isn't def russ. spread the wealth. actually, me and my buddy were wondering if he took the bus when he came.
god bless trannies at 2AM. each and every one of them. we hopped on the subway last night with three in truly rare form. my friend jessica, who is visiting, was trying to pretend like they weren't there. i said: come on, this is what makes new york the greatest city in the universe. and she eventually agreed. anyway, one had fabulous boobs and a pink lace corset that made me jealous. another was wearing a button down oxford, black panties, white hose, and shiny black stilettos. no mas. he/she kept strutting up and down the car going, "cum awwn. less go to the other car befawr it gess too crowwwded." and then he/she would fall back over into a seat, legs high up in the air - and even with his dick gaffed i still managed to get a face full of balls. ahhh city that never sleeps. what *would* i do without you?
time for pancackes.
after going to this bizarre white tunnel of a bar and blowing $80 on gin myself, and trying to tell this stripper that i thought her tits were just fine, alex takes me to this club where the floor boy looks like michael wincott except with a big patch of grey hair up front, this white pinstripe vest, and black and white patent leather boots. search me. the guy was comping us drinks for the balance of the night, so i wasn't about to call him on looking like a pirate in one of jean paul gaultier's dreams. thing is, this place was filled with all of these punk rock lesbians. why they so angry? why they gotta hate? honey if i wanted to date you i'd just come out and say so. i'm cool if you like the ladies. i like the ladies, too. i'm just trying to be polite and make small talk. and trying to find out where you got that cheap fucking house dress, and what queef convinced you that you looked good in it.
anyway, the moral of the story is: finish the night with what you started. for me friday night is usually a simple white liquor night, but alex insists on capping the night with a few of these "fine and dandies." it's like a melted orange popsicle but straight booze. fuck's sake was i cross-eyed. i kept trying to talk about charlie parker and lester young with my friend april, but i couldn't get the word "charlie" out of my mouth without slobbering like a bull mastiff. i hate being so drunk that i'm completely cognizant of my inability to speak. she was so sweet about it though. she goes: "tommy, it's cool. just say bird instead." god bless you april.
yesterday i presumed i could fight back the hangover with a couple of key lime margaritas while watching the ponies. smarty fucking jones. my ass. even if he *did* win you'd have still lost money. the worst part was that i was surrounded by all of these horrible hipsters that, in addition to being dumb enough to place bets on smarty at 2 - 5 odds, kept making fun of my bike. it's a lo lo you dipshits, and yes, it is so so *so* much sweeter than your vintage vespa.
on that note, let me just say that my contribution to the u.s. army suggestion box is that instead of bombing vieques, do us all a favor bomb north williamsburg out to graham avenue.
the coup de gras was that after sneering at my bike, one of the nu-mullet spectators started ripping on the horse with the yellow number and the jockey awash in teal. what was his name? oh that's right, birdstone. well guess what dickface? that animal managed to fart in smarty's face just as he crossed the finish line. sucka. always beat on teal.
http://www.russianturkishbaths.com/enter.html
thank god for this place. and thank god that fucking RUSSELL SIMMONS was kicking it there yesterday when i went. i kept thinking at some point his manservants would roll in, and he'd bust out the bubbly. you know. it's russell simmons. doesn't he big pimp everywhere he goes? you'd think so. i'm all like, "hey. russ. how's the wife?" and he just nods and starts doing some sort of yoga. yoga isn't def russ. spread the wealth. actually, me and my buddy were wondering if he took the bus when he came.
god bless trannies at 2AM. each and every one of them. we hopped on the subway last night with three in truly rare form. my friend jessica, who is visiting, was trying to pretend like they weren't there. i said: come on, this is what makes new york the greatest city in the universe. and she eventually agreed. anyway, one had fabulous boobs and a pink lace corset that made me jealous. another was wearing a button down oxford, black panties, white hose, and shiny black stilettos. no mas. he/she kept strutting up and down the car going, "cum awwn. less go to the other car befawr it gess too crowwwded." and then he/she would fall back over into a seat, legs high up in the air - and even with his dick gaffed i still managed to get a face full of balls. ahhh city that never sleeps. what *would* i do without you?
time for pancackes.
VIEW 22 of 22 COMMENTS
The Brain and Mind symposium was good, although I only saw about half of it, I was stuck on a damned broken down subway for the second day and got there too late to see Searle talk. It really pissed me off. I'd seen all the speakers from Columbia before - but they were still pretty impressive.
And man, I used to live across the street from the Now bar for two years. Trannies are 11 different kinds of hilarious.
so you live in bushwick? what's this bbq everyone's talking about?