F*ckin missed the train again, but not to worry because I have a match tonight and the Warden won’t be expecting me home until at least ten. Time for a wunnie. Christ- it’s gotten so at least ninety-nine percent of the dope I smoke is on the streets of New York. Long gone are the days when walking in the door Friday night meant flopping down on the couch with enough authority that the possibility of knocking over the four footer was as distinct as the possibility I might have skid marks in my Brooks Brothers boxers.
When such incidents did occur, the obvious solution was to strip and mop up the bong water with said striped undies. After all, who was going to see? Helga the twenty-two year old Russian psycho-hottie housekeeper? She smoked more of my stash than I did. Not really sure if she could easily translate the “Trainwreck/Kush hybrid” sticker on the clear plastic boxes kept in open sight on the coffee table, but she sure as hell figured out the species of dried plant inside.
But I digress; the paddle tennis. Such a wolf in sheep’s clothing it should be a euphemism unto itself. Don’t get me wrong, there are matches played and score is kept, some light exercise in involved, but this is a built-in night out with the boys. It is for the girls, too, though the vices tend to Brunschwig & Fils rather than key bumps and Beamers "Cafe". The scheduled night out has probably saved more marriages than it has ruined. After all, pretty much every caste has their version:
Bowling-for the “underbelly-but-they-don’t-know/care crowd, as well as the “took the Hipster thing too far and joined a league ass nozzles”.
Poker: Now mainstream, former staple of the wise-guy/guido…
-Wait-
-F*ck-
Sorry, guess that bud is a little creeper. Anyway, today was a rough one. Staggered in on 3 hours of sleep after coming home completely jacked in a car after a client dinner at Il Posto got completely out of hand. We start out at Bice rifling down $9 f*cking Peronis like Juniors at UVM funneling Natty Light. The guys we took out look like the crowd that “coincidentally” ends up in Vegas the weekend that Comicon (that’s the comic convention for all you non-dweebs out there) and the Adult Video Awards “coincidentally” coincide EVERY year. -F*ck-
Anyway, six bottles of Montepulciano Riserva , a barely touched bistecca and six flaming shots of ‘Buca later, and I think one of these Doogie Houser /Long Duc Dong hybrids is placing his hand on my thigh under the table. I just about to haul off and spatter his nose all over the Specials mirror when I realize it’s a fold. Christ, no wonder my nipples were hard. I was beginning to question myself for a second there.
Three hours after that I find myself in a warehouse in the Bronx around the corner from Sin City, watching two Spanish chicks go down on a dude while Storm Trooper Numero uno does laps around the place on his Vespa with a Cool 1000 dangling from his lips. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot indeed.
Wore the same pants to work today since my wallet was already in them and just discovered the lefties in back pocket, which should cancel out the wunnie for the match nicely. Bet we stomp those proletariat pussies, assuming nobody has a heart attack…
