INFERNAL RACKET

Friday and Saturday nights are werewolf nights in the city. Meaning that Polk Street and its cross streets are filled with twenty somethings well on their way toward inebriation, disorderly and loud of voice. As a savage puritanical Dutch American of mature years I disapprove wholeheartedly of this.

Meaning that I am distressed by loud ruckus immediately behind me while taking a last walk with my pipe after all day at the salt mines listening to the old ladies in the backroom fighting and soiling their incontinence pants over sportsgames on teevee.


All of them eat too much, dress funny and smell bad.
They are cigar smokers. And reek accordingly.
Unlike us saintly pipesmokers.

I wish those hufters behind me would shut the hell up. No one cares about the dee-licious Mexican food they had. Or however many beers they drank. They can puke in the bushes before unlocking the door to their apartment building so that they can fall asleep, drunken stupor, on the landing or out by the garbage bins where they dump the empty pizza boxes.
For the local rats and raccoons to feast upon.

Actually, I'm rather jealous of them.
I'm not social enough to party.
And I don't like noise.


It's Fleet Week. The Blue Angels are flying overhead, and there are sailors and soldiers in town. Which means suburbanite slags looking for meat roaming the streets.
Of any and all genders. As well as stages of ripeness.


I abound with sneering disapproval.



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