The cartoon version of the big race war we all fear.
Sung, who could best be described as a middle-aged Brazilian man, was immediately taken aback after Juanita, who could best be described, a youngish Norwegian woman, wrapped a makeshift towel around her head with her stubby fingers, which reeked of fresh pierogi, and pelted him with the following words, “Go back to Antarctica!” Her accent was thick like the mustache of a New Zealand sailor’s typically ugly daughter.
This is the Omni Hotel® in Dallas, the one in Texas. Many things have happened here over the years. This is just one more incident.
In her current state, Mary Zweibel knew only two things; this was not her bathroom and she had to seriously hurl. She hugged the cold porcelain toilet and moaned “Earl”, while spewing the contents of her stomach through her mouth and into the water, which then splashed back into her face. She coughed. This expulsion revealed two more bits of information. One, she had last eaten pasta; and two, the sickening sweet stench of Red Bull® and whatever else the fuck is in a Vegas Bomb™ forced the disgusting stream out of her face. For those who need to know, the other ingredients are Crown Royal Canadian Whiskey®, Malibu Coconut Rum®, peach schnapps, and a splash of cranberry juice. The thick choking aroma of sugar forced her to vomit again, and then the sight of it made her repeat the violent spasms.
The unicorn was the three-dollar bill of the animal kingdom, followed closely by the exaggerating inchworm.
In the true spirit of Christmas, Mr. Derby exclaimed, “And a Merry Christmas to you!” accompanied with an extended middle finger. You would too if you were soaked to the bone by a car purposely driving close to curbs in order to splash unsuspecting pedestrians with slush. Depending on which side you’re on, it’s either hilarious or painfully tragic. In Mr. Derby’s case, it was the latter. In retrospect, it was the perfect ending to the worst day of his life.
Before GPS, there was the North Star.
It was Christmas Eve and Dad came home drunk as if it were yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that. Long story short, Dad was one of them functioning alcoholics. None of this mattered to me. I was eight years old and I needed to know one thing: What is the meaning of Christmas.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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