RAAAARR!
I had trouble sleeping again last night. Son of beetch! Sheet!!
Quick anecdote regarding perhaps-insensitive quasi-phonetic foreign accent lapse there: When I was in college the first time in Austin, I lived in the 21st Street Co-Op, an artsy nonprofit alternative communey un-dorm founded in part by Lady Bird Johnson. A crazy, crazy place. But shit, I digress, already, again. Anyhoo, one night, me and some other kids, including, if memory serves, Andrew Jenkins and Anjali Gupta, we went over to a nearby 7-11 to skulk around. A man of possibly Middle Eastern or Pakistani origin worked at this 7-11. A nice, friendly, non-creepy man who we all knew to be calm and sane and sound. But this one night we went in there, we found him arguing with a big dumb drunk frat boy who was wanting very badly to buy beer with no ID. The sane hardworking immigrant 7-11 guy started off polite, but firm. The frat guy didn't give up, however, quickly becoming whinier and surlier and more insistent, his fratty whiney beer-entitlement finally reaching such an annoying, nay, Presidential fever piitch that the clerk erupted thusly:
SON OF BEETCH, SHEET!!
HOW MANY TIMES I HAVE TO TELL YOU??
FIFTEEN???
...FIVE, MAYBE!?!?!?
YOU EAT OUT OF MY BUTT!!
FUCK ME, FUCK ME, FUCK ME!!!!
Which is about the best cuss-out I have ever heard. I mean: !
Okay, it's a little gross, but still...for one thing, I think it's genius to reverse the numerical value in the "how many times I have to tell you" sequence. Fifteen? No? Well how about FIVE?
Not only did this cussout send the frat guy right back to his Broncoful of lame-os, but I swore then and there I would immortalize this poet's incandescent righteousness to all the world. And it only took me fifteen years. You're welcome, sir, wherever you are!
So that's one accomplishment accomplished today.
Stuff I thought or hoped would happen today, but didn't, plus mitigating and aggravating factors:
1. I was supposed to go to yoga class tonight. However, due to my continuing dysphoric PMS insomnia deal, I didn't fall asleep til close to 3 this morning, and so had some trouble getting myself together for work four-and-a-half hours later. I was on time to work, but neglected to haul my yoga togs with me. Which I realized while I was on the train. So, to remedy this, I RACED home after work at 5 to pick my yoga bag up from my Brooklyn bitch pad and then make it to my yoga instructor Amy's place in Harlem before 6 pm class, only to find:
2. That the envelope of signed freelancer contracts for the Holly Hobbie project that I sent to Simon & Schuster on Monday was returned to me today for a dearth of required postage equalling (somebody helpfully hand-wrote in, on the return-to-sender stamp): NINE CENTS.
3. This wouldn't've been such a biggie except that S&S gotta get my contract before they can PAY me, and the notion of even a 2-3 day delay in me getting paid is very deleterious for my broke, overemotional ass at this juncture. So I had a complete wailing meltdown in the foyer (read: radiator cover where the mail piles up)of my apartment building.
4. Because of the PMS and not sleeping.
5. Also because I am BROKE, y'all! I have this new job, which is great, but I am still in a hole, due in part to Teamster dues being sucked from my paycheck til my probation's over (luckily this month), a 3-week-lag in getting paid, and having to pay New York state five hundred dollars from when they gave me some Unemployment Insurance money this summer that my former employer/eternal nemesis, St. Martin's Press, then decided to not grant me. (A whole 'nother story entirely.)
5. But about all that, my parents have been incredibly generous in preventing homelessness and healthcarelessness and worse poverty for the past far-too-long. To wit: they sent a relief check at the beginning of the week to help me over this hump, but it has yet to arrive. This was another thing I was hoping would happen today.
So: supposed to go to yoga and then one of my writer's groups and then possibly a party/film shoot tonight
But instead: I've decided to stay in and weep.
But I feel good about sharing the 7-11 story with you, Barbara.
Quick anecdote regarding perhaps-insensitive quasi-phonetic foreign accent lapse there: When I was in college the first time in Austin, I lived in the 21st Street Co-Op, an artsy nonprofit alternative communey un-dorm founded in part by Lady Bird Johnson. A crazy, crazy place. But shit, I digress, already, again. Anyhoo, one night, me and some other kids, including, if memory serves, Andrew Jenkins and Anjali Gupta, we went over to a nearby 7-11 to skulk around. A man of possibly Middle Eastern or Pakistani origin worked at this 7-11. A nice, friendly, non-creepy man who we all knew to be calm and sane and sound. But this one night we went in there, we found him arguing with a big dumb drunk frat boy who was wanting very badly to buy beer with no ID. The sane hardworking immigrant 7-11 guy started off polite, but firm. The frat guy didn't give up, however, quickly becoming whinier and surlier and more insistent, his fratty whiney beer-entitlement finally reaching such an annoying, nay, Presidential fever piitch that the clerk erupted thusly:
SON OF BEETCH, SHEET!!
HOW MANY TIMES I HAVE TO TELL YOU??
FIFTEEN???
...FIVE, MAYBE!?!?!?
YOU EAT OUT OF MY BUTT!!
FUCK ME, FUCK ME, FUCK ME!!!!
Which is about the best cuss-out I have ever heard. I mean: !
Okay, it's a little gross, but still...for one thing, I think it's genius to reverse the numerical value in the "how many times I have to tell you" sequence. Fifteen? No? Well how about FIVE?
Not only did this cussout send the frat guy right back to his Broncoful of lame-os, but I swore then and there I would immortalize this poet's incandescent righteousness to all the world. And it only took me fifteen years. You're welcome, sir, wherever you are!
So that's one accomplishment accomplished today.
Stuff I thought or hoped would happen today, but didn't, plus mitigating and aggravating factors:
1. I was supposed to go to yoga class tonight. However, due to my continuing dysphoric PMS insomnia deal, I didn't fall asleep til close to 3 this morning, and so had some trouble getting myself together for work four-and-a-half hours later. I was on time to work, but neglected to haul my yoga togs with me. Which I realized while I was on the train. So, to remedy this, I RACED home after work at 5 to pick my yoga bag up from my Brooklyn bitch pad and then make it to my yoga instructor Amy's place in Harlem before 6 pm class, only to find:
2. That the envelope of signed freelancer contracts for the Holly Hobbie project that I sent to Simon & Schuster on Monday was returned to me today for a dearth of required postage equalling (somebody helpfully hand-wrote in, on the return-to-sender stamp): NINE CENTS.
3. This wouldn't've been such a biggie except that S&S gotta get my contract before they can PAY me, and the notion of even a 2-3 day delay in me getting paid is very deleterious for my broke, overemotional ass at this juncture. So I had a complete wailing meltdown in the foyer (read: radiator cover where the mail piles up)of my apartment building.
4. Because of the PMS and not sleeping.
5. Also because I am BROKE, y'all! I have this new job, which is great, but I am still in a hole, due in part to Teamster dues being sucked from my paycheck til my probation's over (luckily this month), a 3-week-lag in getting paid, and having to pay New York state five hundred dollars from when they gave me some Unemployment Insurance money this summer that my former employer/eternal nemesis, St. Martin's Press, then decided to not grant me. (A whole 'nother story entirely.)
5. But about all that, my parents have been incredibly generous in preventing homelessness and healthcarelessness and worse poverty for the past far-too-long. To wit: they sent a relief check at the beginning of the week to help me over this hump, but it has yet to arrive. This was another thing I was hoping would happen today.
So: supposed to go to yoga and then one of my writer's groups and then possibly a party/film shoot tonight
But instead: I've decided to stay in and weep.
But I feel good about sharing the 7-11 story with you, Barbara.
posted by sarahfisch at
3:23 PM
2 Comments:
How many times I have to tell you? Fifteeen? Maybe five?
That Hollie Hobbie is a bitch.
you eat out of my butt....
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
i think i may just include that in my wedding vows.
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