We've got a layover in Newark and these surroundings are the bus full of pianos exploding our frail senses into vapor. Here you go:
- Kathy Bates in a Beetlejuice costume is sitting across from us with eyes firmly glued to our every twitch.
- Drops of Jupiter is playing somewhere and like a panther's growl alone in the rainforest, we can't tell where it's coming from or thusly which direction to flee from our certain deafening/murder
- Our lemon pound cake tastes like bathroom.
- A sherpa of noisy Indian children have descended upon us in a thick mist, smelling like a Hindi daycare and screaming for more chicken tikki.
- Reba is on the TV overhead. Hair. Lips. Twang. Horror.
- We're violently shoved to our knees by this airport's marathon fuckscent.
- Our lower right rib has snapped from a suited jerkbag shuttling our fleshy thorax with his blunt steel breifcase in passing.
- There are white jeans...everywhere.
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2 comments:
Quit whining, at least you aren't chained to your effing desk today.
I've been stuck for over 13 hours in that airport. Pure torture. The monkeyfucks who work there are have been bitten by the asshole virus and yes, the smell of "fuckscent" is ripe.
I might have to steel that.
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