potluck planter: by jules

A more accurate description of the beer flavored
momentum that drove foofer into the plants would
be "barreled". Whilst on the sidewalk giving some
chick my rap, which she dug, a spectacular
bespectacled sandal shod blur of questionable
sexuality kind-of cartwheeled over the iron wrought
things that protect the fagile spring flower sprouts
which try in vain to bring a whisper of dignity and
innocent vitality to an otherwise perverse length of
the 18th street ...pock marked with vomit, drunks and
shameful collegiate whores who have no right trying to
fit that much tits, ass and cottage cheese into so
little halter-top and stretch denim.

A passerby pleaded that "someone betta help 'dat man
[in sweatpants who just tumbled into 'dat parked
vehicle]". At first I chuckled and pointed but then
recognized the poor bastard. Amanda and I helped him
up to his wobbly mozzeralla-like legs and asked if he
was "ok." The question would prove to be rhetorical.
He straightened his glasses adjusted his tie (which he
wasn't wearing) and trampled over the prepubescent
flowers to a cab which I had courageously hailed.

We shoved him into the cab as best we could, but his
head hit the top of the doorway and could not make
passage through the door at the same time with the
legs. We heaved with our backs and I shared a moment
with a passing 'ho who no doubt symathized with my
struggle a few hours earlier trying to get those hams
past the waistband. Foofer gurrgled something about
going home and having had too many Zima's at Freedom Jew's
BBQ.

My inventory of stock cab driver destinations is
limited to the Townhouse Taver and... The Fireplace
but I decided to save that ace for another night when
Marc wouldn't have lost consciousness along with
inhibition. Who knew he liked hip-hop so much?
I gave the driver a $20 and told him to "get this man
home as soon as possible." And when I meant "home", I
meant DC Eagle.

-Cooker Jules