Last smoke of the night, several hours ago, surrounded by drunks, sluts, and explosions. Saint James Flake in a Canadian shape pipe. Whisky and water. Chelsea yelling at everyone to drink up, slam it down, and piss off.
I may have been the only reasonably sane and sober person there, having imbibed one and a half drinks, slowly, over a one and a half hour period.
And I wasn't wearing a short skirt. Or stockings, bodices, a push-up bra.
In case you were wondering, none of those items are part of the plan.
What I was wearing was the thick overcoat I last wore in Canada in mid-winter, which insulates nicely against the cold. While making me look like an Edward Gorey character. Possibly skeevy or perverse.
"Come here, little girl, would you like to be sacrificed to the insect god?"
Chelsea does a very good job chasing everybody out with the least amount of friction, though commanding and quarterdeckian in that regard.
Drink up, get out, commit indecent acts elsewhere.
This blogger does not commit indecent acts.
I am too picky about possible victims.
Consequently, there are none.
One and a half slow-imbibed drinks, paced out. One bowl of fine Virginia with a soupçon of Perique. Old pipe. Grouchy fart. Sinus ache. Extremely cold weather. Canadian all-weather garb. Many drunks out on the street.
They are disorerderly. Let loose the water cannons.
I have never been able to handle New Year's excess. I remember Dildo Bob insisting I go up to the front to get him a complimentary glass of bubbly.
"No, get your own damned champers, I don't drink that stuff."
And I refuse to sing that stupid Scottish song also.
I don't like men or women dressed like sluts.
Drink up. Behave properly. And piss off.
This evening I'll be at the karaoke bar.
I am counting on quiet, calmness.
No damned excess.
Thank you.
Sacrificing young adults to the Insect God seems like a wonderful idea.
She's like the Flying Spaghetti Monster, but with mandibles.
Pedipalps, chelicerae, labia, maxillae.
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