2003-04-07

I had a fabulous time in Toronto, as usual, despite the fact that the weather there is actually WORSE than it is here. That �global warming� nonsense is a complete load of shit. It�s fucking APRIL and I spent my weekend wading through knee-deep puddles of half-melted snow. I don�t know how many cans of aerosol hairspray I have to unload at the stratosphere before we can get some decent greenhouse action happening, but I am UP TO THE TASK. Whatever it takes. Give me a warm pair of gloves and a hundred crates of Aquanet and we�ll get this party started.

I got to hang out with the illustrious Towelphaser and his better half, J-net. Much erudite discourse was engaged in, some of it involving dead Chihuahuas in toilets. I�d tell you more, but then I�d have to kill you.

My lovely best friend, her lovely friend, and my lovely self decided to grace a cool martini bar on College Street Saturday night, and the combined force of our loveliness was simply too much for the management to handle. A steady parade of waiters bearing offerings of free shooters made its way to our table. (Be it known: vodka, Sour Apple liqueur and cinnamon? Apple pie in a shot glass! Tasty goodness!) The aftermath of this potable feast being, of course, that I had to endure a five-hour bus ride yesterday with a hangover.

Fun feature of this particular voyage: the batteries in my walkman died. �No problem!� thought I. �I can endure the ride without the dulcet tones of Black Francis. I�ll immerse myself in my well-annotated copy of Tess of the D�Urbervilles, and will become blissfully inured to my unpleasant surroundings.� Oh, what hubris! Batteries�the word has become as acid on my tongue (battery acid, I suspect). Thomas Hardy, even at the height of his sparkling loquacity, could not compete with the TALKING DOLL lovingly cradled in the arms of the little girl across the aisle. This doll helpfully alerted her twee mama to the fact that her batteries were low, with a creepy mechanical utterance of the phrase �My batteries. Are low. Please replace my. Triple A. Batteries.� Oh, what a lying bitch. Those �low batteries� had enough juice to crank out that sentence approximately eighty thousand times. One of those fucking chicks who just wants attention, obviously. �My batteries are low.� �I�m going to OD on painkillers.� Whatever. Put your Motrin where your mouth is, call me from the emergency room, and then we�ll talk.

What was I saying? Oh, right. Oh, my god. I nearly ripped that doll out of the little girl�s arms and used it to bludgeon the girl in the seat next to mine, who spent the entire journey engaged in a freakish act of auto-cannibalization. This chick chewed her nails, audibly, for FIVE HOURS STRAIGHT. I swear. She chewed on her own hand like some giant low-rise-jean-sporting rodent, her teeth cutting with devastating efficiency through her cuticles, making a horrific clicking sound that will haunt me to the end of my days. I expected to look over at the end of the trip and see a mangled stump on the end of her arm. I�m surprised SHE didn�t look over at the end of the trip and see a mangled stump at the end of my neck, because my head nearly exploded.

Sorry boys, she's married...however, I am currently accepting free shooters on her behalf. (Oh yeah -- I cut my hair.)