My apartment mate is wired to the tits. She couldn't get higher if she tried. And had a ladder. Man, she's quivering. She'll be bouncing off the walls for hours. It's going to be a long night.
Good thing I'm leaving later.
I've got my own plans.
I'll be listening in on Cantonese Opera rehearsals in C'town for half and hour, then heading over to Broadway for rotgut red and a pint, followed by Jameson's at the crazy lady's place.
I blame all of this on a small Oriental female. See, years ago my apartment mate and I were in a popular pedestrian mall when we passed a little Asian girl outside her family's restaurant staffing the ice-cream table. Nobody was buying, and she obviously had been dragooned into the task very much against her will. Obedient, but oppressed.
She had a very simple sales pitch.
"Ice cream."
"Ice cream!!!"
"ICE CREAM!!!!!!!"
Finally, in howling fury and frustration:
"ICE!*!*! CREEEEEEAMMM!*!*!*!*!"
Not surprisingly, she got yanked. In most cases it is better to have a low-key ice cream seller than an over the top mad one.
A truly great performance, though.
We fondly remember her.
"ICE!*!*! CREEEEEEAMMM!*!*!*!*!"
My apartment mate is presently in the kitchen with two tubs of frozen dairy dessert, yelling "ice cream" at the top of her lungs.
She is deliriously swacked on sugar.
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