Litterbug
I'm trying to watch the war, will you please shut up Watchdog and Killer. I think it's that yellow bastard that's got them all up in arms, barking like it's a code red or something. That yellow bastard saunters by the chain link fence taunting chained up dogs by spraying forth that essence of himself.
Spring is in the air all right.
I try to watch with Discovery Channel-like detachment the courting ritual of cats as they go about procreating in the recently mowed weeds next door. I can't tell if it's Shorty or Spinks that that yellow bastard is dominating. It's not as subtle as TV, looking out my kitchen window at this. I have to turn away. I need a commercial.
Last night there was more barking so I got up off the couch to look out front. I slipped on a New Yorker and fell, totally out of control, at the last minute grabbing onto a bottle of Arizona iced tea, which buffered the momentum of my elbow heading for the hardwood floor. It was just a car turning around in my driveway. Thanks Watchdog. I try to console myself after the ignominious falling by assuring myself that if I never get off the couch again I'll be safe.
Later, there is loud rap music, and voices, from over yonder. There's been lately some cars who think it's a drive-thru service over there, honking loudly and repeatedly until someone comes out. It is sloppy behavior and it makes me feel fed up. This is a very quiet block and it is in everyone's best interest that it stay that way. That's the way my thinking sounds when I'm fed up.
I'm looking out the front door glass again. There he is, quintessential urban gangster, in a shiny Cadillac with spoke rims. That music is going to burst his eardrums. He is eating fast food from a sack. Finishing, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, wads up the sack, and tosses it into the street before screeching off in a fishtail down Iberville. That littering really chafes my hide. I see one of myselves layering off from the others and running outside to grab that sack. He runs down Iberville toward the projects, screaming--hey man, hey man, you forgot this, you, you, less than fastidious bastard. Soon he arrives in no-mans land. I can't help him out there. He is way too far out of context. He should have stayed on the couch with the rest of us.
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I'm trying to watch the war, will you please shut up Watchdog and Killer. I think it's that yellow bastard that's got them all up in arms, barking like it's a code red or something. That yellow bastard saunters by the chain link fence taunting chained up dogs by spraying forth that essence of himself.
Spring is in the air all right.
I try to watch with Discovery Channel-like detachment the courting ritual of cats as they go about procreating in the recently mowed weeds next door. I can't tell if it's Shorty or Spinks that that yellow bastard is dominating. It's not as subtle as TV, looking out my kitchen window at this. I have to turn away. I need a commercial.
Last night there was more barking so I got up off the couch to look out front. I slipped on a New Yorker and fell, totally out of control, at the last minute grabbing onto a bottle of Arizona iced tea, which buffered the momentum of my elbow heading for the hardwood floor. It was just a car turning around in my driveway. Thanks Watchdog. I try to console myself after the ignominious falling by assuring myself that if I never get off the couch again I'll be safe.
Later, there is loud rap music, and voices, from over yonder. There's been lately some cars who think it's a drive-thru service over there, honking loudly and repeatedly until someone comes out. It is sloppy behavior and it makes me feel fed up. This is a very quiet block and it is in everyone's best interest that it stay that way. That's the way my thinking sounds when I'm fed up.
I'm looking out the front door glass again. There he is, quintessential urban gangster, in a shiny Cadillac with spoke rims. That music is going to burst his eardrums. He is eating fast food from a sack. Finishing, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, wads up the sack, and tosses it into the street before screeching off in a fishtail down Iberville. That littering really chafes my hide. I see one of myselves layering off from the others and running outside to grab that sack. He runs down Iberville toward the projects, screaming--hey man, hey man, you forgot this, you, you, less than fastidious bastard. Soon he arrives in no-mans land. I can't help him out there. He is way too far out of context. He should have stayed on the couch with the rest of us.
- jimlouis 3-27-2003 4:19 am