2003-08-18

Toronto, or �T-Dot� as the kids are calling it these days (or at least those kids with severe cognitive disorders and no taste), is officially a hot, reeking hellhole. Although the company was first-rate, Saturday afternoon�s aimless, meandering death march through the Earth�s core � or perhaps that was Toronto�s downtown � wasn�t high up on the Fun-O-Meter. However, things rapidly redeemed themselves later in the evening, coincidentally enough right around that felicitous time of day when public drunkenness becomes socially acceptable.

Post-dinner drinks at the Bovine Sex Club were just the thing to divest me of my sorrows, along with my inhibitions and any lingering sense of decorum. I remember pouring part of the last Labatt 50 of the evening down my top, although I don�t remember why it was exactly that a punk-rock wet T-shirt contest seemed so abjectly hysterical. Oh well. It�s water under the bridge now � or lager under my bra, more precisely.

Stumbling lodgings-wards along Queen Street after last call was disturbingly eventful. After cheering loudly for a sad schmuck who was regurgitating what looked to be an entire keg in a spectacular sunburst pattern all over the Spadina intersection, my karmic retribution was swift, fierce, and decidedly surreal: minutes later, about a pint of unidentified liquid, from an unidentified source, somehow splashed all over me. It seemed to have come from above, but there was no place for it to have come from, and there was nobody anywhere near my friend and me at the time. I quickly surmised that God himself must have jizzed on me, that bastard. It was the Immaculate Cum Shot.

I was hoping against hope that the indeterminate liquid was just water, but as it dried, my skin and hair became disturbingly sticky, upgrading the situation from �puzzling� to �revolting�. Luckily, as I may have mentioned, I was drunk out of my mind, and I quickly moved on from bemoaning my fate to more entertaining cab-ride pastimes, like deciding that rather than having children like �normal� people do, I want to get pregnant, abort the fetus and keep it in a jar of formaldehyde. �Leroy� and I would have hours of fun as I merrily shook his jar, and when he misbehaved I would fish him out with a fork like a little pink dill pickle and hold him menacingly over the garbage disposal.

You didn�t think I could get more offensive, did you? Shows what YOU know.