shitona stick
Cousin Kim on Location in South Beach, Florida
30/07/1999
On my way to the office this morning I realized that I was not in a very good mood. It was hot, my car smelled, there was nothing to listen to on the radio, and I was severely cranky. How could this be? I had quite an interesting weekend and had spent Sunday in my yard with friends and vodka. Not much to be cranky about. Sitting at the red light on Alton and 17th, which since the induction of the new 97 theater cinemaplex on Lincoln Road, has become the Ben Hur of traffic lights, I started to retrace the dance steps of my weekend. Friday: Now I am not a violent person, nor do I advocate directionless violence, but for some reason I felt compelled to smash bottles over peoples heads. I sat misanthropically in the corner with my vodka and a few fellow scowlers, and glared. On my way to the bathroom I was stopped by a rather excited and friendly early man. Apparently he thinks he knows me, and I stood there awkwardly as he stumbled and stuttered over monosyllabic words to form a sentence in the form of a question, which was would I go out on a date with him. Most of you know I am not to keen on hanging with the hunters and gatherers, and at a risk of being clubbed and dragged off by my pony tail, I politely told him I had to go to the bathroom and would be right back to give him an answer. Obviously this was common place to the Neolithic "Chuck" and he remained slumped at his end of the bar for the rest of the night. As the night progressed, and I spoke to people throughout the night, I was so amazed to hear that I had been having such an active sex life. I only wish I could have been there to enjoy the sex, and maybe even join in, I probably would not be as cranky as I am today if that was the case. But apparently I have been having sex with one of the bar tenders for quite a while now, and didn't even know about it! The news of my alleged promiscuity etched the scowl deeper on my face, and provided me with a firmer grip on my glass of Stoli O just in case I needed to smash it over someone's head (figuratively of course). The night ended with me confronting my alleged sex partner with his ridiculous stories of "O" concerning myself as a main character, which he vehemently denied, and 5 in the morning rolling around sooner than I could shake my stalking Brazilian lesbian friend. Another Friday night. As Saturday night brought about close to the same results as Friday night, I really couldn't think of anything as I sat at the stop light that would have made me cranky this morning. Movie at 10 with friends, drinks by midnight, out of the bar by 5, over to a friends hotel until 7, then driven home in a rented convertible with 4 other people at 7:30 in the morning listening to Safety Dance and felling surprizingly sober. Ah, yes, I thought, 10 am. My roommate from high school was coming over at noon, and I was to have a luncheon. Nothing formal, just a few people sitting by the dock with cocktails and Epicure deli food. Seeing my roommate from high school was actually really great, (despite the fact that she is happily married and I remain a one part name that might as well be replaced with BITTER) and we tried to catch up on the last ten years. Ash was draped in leaves and glitter and shook his booty at passing boats, Mathew pranced (he will kill me when he sees I wrote the word pranced in the same sentence as his name) around in my shorts as swim trunks, and it was all around a great day. Then the vortex kicked in, around 8 PM. Wandering over to the Deuce for just a few to top off the weekend, we took our places at the bar. I was, again, in a great mood. The bar was filled with about 15 people, all quasi friends, and spirits were high. Jean and Kenny sat in the corner with their new kitten peeking out of a pale ale six pack box, Mathew played pool with the ATF agent, Crystal gyrated appropriately to Bush Fire behind the bar, two German looking spies sat at the bar, staring at us and taking notes on American bar culture, Tara the transsexual bombshell sat across from me drinking her "jegger mayster" and I of course, slouched at the bar with Ash. All was going well. Then in walked the iguana man. Now if it already isn't bad enough that he exploits these poor iguanas by forcing them to perch on his shoulders as he walks around all day in the hot sun and makes them smile (rather unconvincingly I might add) for photos with Midwestern tourists and sun burned Germans for them to bring home as a validation of their "wild" South Beach experience, but he brings these poor things into a bar...on a Sunday even. As iguana man made his way up to the bar, he made the mistake of trying to reach it via the transsexual Tara highway. Muscling past her, he tried to order a drink from Crystal. Not really holding my interest, I glanced away for a second, only to look back and see Tara holding one of the iguanas by the tail, dangling it over the bar, and screaming mother fucker at the top of her lungs. As the bar turned it's eyes to Tara, she was pleased to have all the attention, and started screaming mother fucker louder, and decided to swing the poor iguana over her head. Arms out stretched, and stiff as a board, the iguana spun round and round, none of us knowing what was going through his tiny reptilian brain. As the crowd begged Tara to put the thing down, she was merely encouraged even more, and swung faster and faster, finally letting it go. Through the air it flew, and flew, and flew. Across the bar, over the shot glasses, past Crystal, over the coasters, directly in between Ash's head, and my face, where it's flight met it's untimely conclusion against the cigarette machine. In a split second, we had witnessed our first transsexual iguana shot put. Looking down in silence, we all glanced at the poor creature as it sat, stunned and paralyzed with fear, on the beer soaked floor of the Deuce. The light was then turning green, and in the moments of sitting at the light at Alton and 17th, I realized why I was cranky this morning.
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