Ernie Hemingway was pissed off. Seriously. He was supposed to be alone. He was not. This was supposed to be his first vacation in eight years. He needed it. Instead, he was laid up at the damn county hospital with a swollen gall bladder, or cholecystitis.
“It could have been worse,” Dr. Pastrami said.
“How the fuck? Huh? How the fuck?” was what Ernie Hemingway thought and said.
Dr. Pastrami skedaddled, but not before saying, “Yeesh, what a grouch!” It is worth noting, his impression of Ed Norton was uncanny.
When searching the word ‘peculiar’ on the interwebs, this was one of the first images to appear.
Maria Padilla was peculiar, to say the least. But it had nothing to do with her appearance, even though she was absolutely stupid crazy for plaid, wore her bra as an overgarment, somehow cornrowed her eyebrows, and every time she was faced with a choice, her tongue dropped out of her mouth. One day, she will have it reattached.
The moon said, “Checkmate.” The man stood there, dumbfounded. Minutes later he said, “You’re a checkmate.”
Long into the night, the man debated with the moon over the terms waxing and waning. All the while, growing louder and louder with each shot of cheap bourbon they imbibed. The man claimed that the moon was waxing, and the moon insisted that the man was waning.
It did not matter a lick that they were both correct, for there was still a lot of bourbon left. What the two lacked in intelligence, they more than made up for with their impeccable stamina.
To best understand this story, one must imagine this line and then multiply it by gazillion squared twice, and then minus seven or eight.
As consciousness returned, he found himself standing in a very long line of people. He had no recollection of how, why, where, or what. After about an hour or so, he categorized this whole affair futile. But, he had little to no choice. Wait or step out of line. When he looked behind him, the line was much longer than the one in front of him.