I woke up this morning with my soul shriveling on the floor and a gang of Philippino stick fighters causing massive collateral damage in my skull. The previous night was spent dining on a bag of fortune cookies and several very large bone dry dirty vodka martinis. That man who invented the martini is a soul brother of Robert Oppenheimer, having unleashed upon the world a source of such destructive power which is all too deliciously tempting that it should take the simultaneous turn of two keys to allow it to be poured. The fortune cookies however are not so cruel. After extricating myself from the cabinet I had taken refuge in, I armed myself with a fire extinguisher for fear that the pure alcohol I was sweating would ignite at the smallest spark. Thus I hit the streets.
My first stop was the local diner where I planned to offset my condition with a liberal application of grease and salt. “Gimme two eggs with bacon and cheese on a buttered roll” I told the woman behind the counter. “Well,” she said, “we have a special with two eggs, bacon or sausage, homefries and toast, but we don’t have egg sandwiches.” I can’t say what my reaction to this looked like, but judging from the way she retreated into the kitchen it must have seemed fearsome. “WHAT? NO EGG SANDWICHES!?” I bellowed, “What kind commie crap is this? The egg sandwich is the back bone of the industrialized world! This affront will surely affect your Zagat rating!” It was at this point that I noticed the crew of busboys moving to surround me and I knew action was needed. “LE MIGRA!” I yelled by way of diversion, and as the lead man turn to see, I swung the fire extinguisher in a high whistling arc connecting with the soft upper shoulder shattering his collar bone. “I saw them pissing in the soup tureen and there was an ear lobe in the Cobb salad!” I found many times the best way to escape an unhealthy situation is to incite a riot, and this day proved the rule. As the waiters and busboys scrambled to look nonchalant and reassure the cliental that all was well I continued to fan the flames. “I have video tape of them putting Mad Cow Disease in the bacon! What do you really think is in that eclair? SOILENT GREEN IS PEOPLE!!!”
On that note I knew it was time to abscond. Within minutes the customers would overturn the tables and set fire to the Rock-O-La jukebox and beat the waitstaff with broken chairs. I’ve seen it happen before, though I won’t say where for fear of prosecution. Suffice it to say that a wise restauranteur would never show me a bill, knowing by instinct alone that my actions for good or ill could decide the life or death of his establishment.
Hours later, as I sit here still half dead and trembling, I can smell the burning formica and flesh wafting up the avenue from where the diner once stood. The lesson to be learned today dear friends, is don’t come between a man and his egg sandwich. It can cost you more than your life. Also, rot gut scotch will serve as a good remedy for short terms DTs.
My hands just now have stopped shaking enough to return to being a productive member of society, whatever that is, and as such I must leave you now dear friends.
Until next time, don’t drink the milk. It’s spoiled.
X
Things have not progressed very far since the last time I posted. I still find myself drawn to the blasted Dirty Martini, the beast that ruined the old world.
fire axe. The atmosphere was distinctly plush and luxurious but ghostly, silent ballroom dancers fading in and out of existence and a creepy pair of twins kept asking if we wanted to play. By the third martini I was ready to stuff Scatman Crothers into the deep freeze, and after the forth I was ejected from the premises when they found me in the basement trying to stoke up the boiler to the point of exploding. But that was fine with me, I didn’t need to witness the bloodbath that was surely on the way. In the end, I believe I made great progress in finding out what all play and no work will eventually make Jack into. 
