One quarter of an hour to three in the morning and it's just me and an irritable bowel. Twenty-five feet of digestive tissue failing to cope with vanilla soft serve despite tongues insistence on said treat being just what I needed. The night’s unsatanly storm clears just in time for a final soak from The Kid's transport to my door. Having hours ago put on our Wednesday worst we ventured east for fashion and poon and general weirdness and a free nights rest at the local lockup. Road obscuring rain and pupil dilating lightning provide entertainment and relief at the finally come apocalypse. Being a conscientious observer of rituals archaic and terrible, we have no fear of the tempests black diapason; it's the other douchebags on the road we're worried about. While on the topic of douchebaggery musings wander to the club d.j. and our mutual antipathy towards said douchebags. In the past, I've lamented both the loss of humanity in industry to technology and the lessened role of the album in the shitpod generation but cannot wait for shitpod playlists to completely replace the talentless fucktards screaming their name and the start of ladies hour during which ladies drink for free. Date rape included at no extra charge. Falling just below mimes but above restaurant magician the club d.j.'s only responsibility is to play new song, new song, remix of relatively recent song, old song once derided but now considered kitsche without forgetting to put the needle at the right spot. Foreboding weather, real country dark and misanthropy synergize in our guttiwuts to form a sinister anti-desire to enter our disco destination. Promises were made to our fauxshionista client and despite my not having made any I'm only the passenger and have little choice. Arriving at the mudpit parking lot, we saunter. Over muscled doorprick demands remuneration. Being the designer of the evening's promotional material The Kid is appalled. What is clearly going to be a legendary argument begins. Not sharing his love of verbal fisticuffs, I scuttle to the car in search of a battering ram. The only item of a suitable size in The Kid's transport is a thrift store Shrek doll destined for the internet auctions. Deeming it suitable I bum rush the door. In a haze of green fur and hair gel twenty minutes of bad craziness commences. With clubfolk running to and fro in a panic The Kid and I make a hasty retreat, satisfied with the mayhem. En route to our transport two birds of acceptable body fat percentages and agreeable dispositions express appreciation for our antics. Pleasantries are short but concise and they fill our backseat. A provision stop is necessary, as we've expended a majority of our debaucherous energies. The twenty four hour convenience store contains all we need to prepare for engaging in depravity of the highest order but during his long and intense coffee ritual one of the dirty birds fails to laugh at a Modigliani reference, rendering The Kid flaccid and frustrated. Undeterred but understanding I agree to leave empty handed and full balled. The frozen treats do much to lighten our moods, as does the belting of upbeat new wave and The Dead Kennedy's. At the alleyway I call home, the goodbyes are short and possibly final as I fully expect to void my soul directly after my bowels. One minute to three in the morning. Goodbye cruel poop.
