PolkOut.com is not going to take your bullsh!t!

Oh alright, fine, give us another handful.

And then I watched her give her mother my business card and all was right with the world.  And her mother also happens to be someone's grandmother, which I thought I'd mention.  I was pretty drunk by then, I was going shot for shot with my pediatrician who, let me tell you, can hold his f!cking liquor. 

The party was in some Russian joint in Brooklyn, scary stuff.  I was standing in line for the mandatory coat check and these two guys with slicked hair and fancy suits started having the most ambiguous conversation ever:

"Everyone here?"

"Everyone who needs to be here is here."

"Everyone?"

"Everyone."

And on and on and on.  For someone like me, who's naturally irrationally paranoid, this sort of sh!t is unnerving because if anyone's going to say the wrong thing to the wrong person, we all pretty much know it's me.  And Mafiosi don't f!ck around.

But otherwise, wow, holy sh!t, it was like I was drowning in a river of cleavage.  Had there been no guys, no women over (in this case) 50, and no Eurotrash techno music, it would've been like heaven.  Now I'm not the sort of guy who's fixated on cleavage--unless it's freakin' ridiculous--but something about the sheer saturation of that place with boobies, and the vodka coursing through my veins, made me feel like I was in Disney Land. 

It's strange because I tend to think of myself as someone who's more inclined towards the behind (you have to picture me saying that like the Fonz).  I don't know why, it's just where a woman's legs end, plus some padding so they can sit.  Oh yeah, and poop comes from in between. 

I guess what I'm trying to say is that asses are like people, only smaller.  Allegorically I mean.  They're representative of us all.  Fun to look at, fun to hold, but full of sh!t.  Not that that's a good thing, but I can relate so there's an immediate connection.  Not that I'm full of sh!t, which I probably am, but everyone else is.  At least everyone in charge.  Like robots operating with Windows Masturbatory Sophist Bullsh!t 08 preinstalled and the only way to wipe the hard drive is with a lead pipe to the nuts.

It's sort of like there's a caterpillar in my brain, stomach-up, his back arching like he's seizing--lets be honest, brain caterpillars tend to be pretty f!cked up.  And from his underside there are thousands upon thousands of children's hands, each grasping the strings of a dozen or so balloons.  Every time bullsh!t crawls through my ears and into this little caterpillar lair, a countless number of hands simultaneously let go, so they're free to shake their angry fists in outrage, and those goddamn balloons are lost forever.  The caterpillar gets pissed, shouting, "WHAT THE F!CKING HELL WAS THAT BULLSH!T?!"  Only he yells it real slow and his voice is deep, deep like Barry White removing the back of James Earl Jones' skull and talking into him like a megaphone.  The vibrations make my head convulse and my nose starts bleeding.

The balloons are a metaphor for...uh...okay, I didn't really think this through.  I just had an image of a caterpillar with children's hands in my head and I thought it looked bitchin'.  So who the hell cares?  The analogy itself is bullsh!t, sorry, but if you've got an imagination I've just tossed a sweet picture your way.

Well anyway, yeah, I guess that's why I consider myself an ass man.

--End Transmission--