Grand Central Terminal (not station you f*cking Rubes. What are you, from f*cking Iowa?)
OK, so apparently Puerto Rican Speedballs* on the way to the train don't cure every hangover, but I'm willing to gamble that this morning's little episode was really the exception to prove the rule. Just bad luck really. After fifteen Goombay Smashes, the shot of Sauza right before catching a puddle jumper back to Westchester Airport probably wasn't a great idea, but how often do you get to salute the men and women who serve our country with liquor from the country they fled a mere couple of weeks ago? The cans on that waitress will ensure that she won't have to learn the language until those things are around her knees, and by then she will have been working in the Schwarzenegger household for at least one full term.
Honestly, though it really wasn't my fault. My freaking New England Puritan roots sneak up on me at the strangest of times. Purely subconscious. I've learned my lesson- there really is no excuse for not flying in the morning of. I certainly hope the Fupa-riffic young lady who had the audacity to sit across from a six- foot- twelve Norse God in a $9000 suit (with a custom ticket pocket just the right size of the dugout he picked up from the Afghani Freedom Fighters behind the counter at the Optimo Store next to The Blarney Stone on Third Avenue) leaned her lesson, too.
Did she not notice that my eyes were pink as a f*cking pet store bunny's or that my skin was the color of window putty? No? The cold sweat sopping my brow like pi$$ in a diaper that has spent the last 3 hours in an air conditioned baby seat stuck in traffic on 95? No? The constant shifting in my seat, trying to find a position that will free my Hefty-sized nutsack from the impenetrable seal it had formed with half of my inner thigh? Really? Today's FT fluttering in my ink- stained hand like a moth in a spider web? Nothin'?
Well then. Lady: I can't be responsible for drowning your pantsuit with every last centiliter of bile from the depths of my (some say over-) privileged gullet, now, can I? The fact that you dumped a keg of Charlie on yourself this morning to cover up the menthol 1000s you had on the platform in Bridgeport really didn't help your cause there, sister. I'm sure Glen likes it and that's why he chose it for you at Sears when he took your little darlings on a shopping excursion for a new George Forman Grill and realized it was Valentine's day, but stick to the pulse points honey. A little Febreze will get you through your day I'm sure.
*One- hitters and coffee
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