Monday, June 27, 2005

I should probably stop dressing like a I grow marijuana in a kiddie pool out back...

I recently received an e-mail from one of my bousom buddies back in the ol' Japan declaring in confused english "why do you meet so many weird people". This came to clarification as I was writting her response, mulling over the happenings of the past few days, and considering other topics I had discussed with her; and, in turn, putting the two together. Due to my shaky blogging track record the reader (if one does exist) may not be aware of just how many cocktail looloos tend to flock around this mighty city of Mizzykoto; it can turn into quite the horde.

Yesterday I took my Japanese speaking partner, whom herebye shall be known as "The Look" due to the swollen lexicon of expressions she can whip out at a moments oddity, to her first concert in the Mizzykoto. I hoped to impress The Look with our wide, diverse range of music and undiscovered talents that surreptitiously dodge about our local alleys and clubs entertaining clapping drunks and baked college students for wages barely enough to skin a cat. Something bohemian. And what did I get? A guy in a one-peice bathing suit (blue with a pale strip) singing (badly) to a recorded karaoke cassette that was most likely assembled on a bet; something I beleive that also played a major role in the choice of apparel. Half way through the exhibition, about five minutes after the ambulance of drunken artists drove by and a little before someone was nailed in the face with a jelly-donut, our faithful performer enhanced the "show" with his magician side by mystically transforming his one peice women's bathing suit into a speedo and thus being able to gingerly keep the beat with his graciously forested man-breasts. The Look however missed that particular display having ducked out earlier for a man-in-a-one-peice smoke. God bless her innocence saving cylinders of death.

Another encounter that sparked my friends comment occured last Thursday as Matt and myself were out about on the streets, probably up to no good and not doing a very good job of it; when from around the corner appeared a lovely redhaird man in tiny-tiny pigtails singing a deleightful diddy about how he's "going to get laid". From his rapidly oscillating voice and his "what is he tripping over" manner of walking one could tell that he was not just high on life. He asked us if we had a lighter, and once denied he asked if he we had marijuana of any sorts. We assured him of none and, after repeating the question and answer three or four more times, he left merrily on his way.

However that was not to be our last encounter with the dope-sprite.

While Matt parked his car, I proceeded down to the local park where some hoo-ha was to go down that night, and took up rest on a picnic table atop a hill. With my hands on my chest, laying down on the table's seat, my partial sleep was disturbed by a loud "ufph" which I took to be Matt attempting to call my name only to give up half way. My Mathew suspicions were confirmed when I heard him approach and mount the picnic table I was resting on. Thinking I should make conversation, I opened my eyes to check his position only to find my face being stradled our pixie of the pixie dust as he slowly lowered his worn jean crotch closer and closer to my mouth. I did scream, and spring forward in crotch-related panic; which apparently frightened the poor creature as he exclaimed "Dude you almost ate my crotch!" his voice still shaking like a vibrator wielded by a sufferer of Parkinson's disease.

He then sat cross legged atop the table and proceded to tell us his background. "I'm a hitchhiker man...I freak people out with my crotch!" I later found out from Mathew that the loud escape of air I heard earlier was him being gunnysack from behind by Jimminy Crackit before being asked, yet again, if he had any drugs to sell. We "conversed" with the young user for a little longer before a loud noise distracted him and sent him running of into new adventures and new straddlable faces.

I used to think they came to me because I hung out with those big breasted women. But now that it's just me and Matt (whose breasts, while appealing, are no towering structures of Babylon) I have to put a new hypothesis into play. Perhaps it's the clothes. I should probably stop dressing like a I grow marijuana in a kiddie pool out back...


Blogger TVonthefritz said...

You have one reader. I read occasionally for your amusing tales for witty commentary.

June 28, 2005 at 3:34 AM  
Anonymous Thomas said...

we are internetly wed...

June 29, 2005 at 9:29 AM  
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October 23, 2005 at 12:08 PM  

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