Saturday night me and Mrs. Dynamite hosted a party. We were cleaning up the apartment on Saturday morning, and I went out to go running. When I came back, Mrs. D. Greeted me with a mischievous look on her face:
"When was the last time you were downstairs?" she asked innocently.
"I don't know - Wednesday night?" I replied.
"Don't get mad - " she continued, which of course, IMMEDIATELY resulted in my interrupting:
"WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?" we have 50 people coming over tonight mind you...
"Don't worry, I'll clean it up - when were you last down there?" she keeps me on the hook...
I'm flipping out now - worried that I'm going to walk downstairs to a broken pipe and 3 inches of water or something.
"Just. Tell. Me. What. Happened." I enunciate slowly.
"Why don't you go downstairs and see if you can figure out what's wrong," she still won't tell me!
I walk down the stairs, fearing the worst, and come face to face with a soot covered pigeon perched on my leather couch! He apparently came down the fucking chimney! Soot is everywhere, and my couch and recliner are COVERED in pigeon shit. I can't help but laugh, and Mrs. Dynamite captured a tremendous photo on her cell phone of the pigeon sitting on the floor inside the apartment, with the neighbor's cat outside the window hungrily eyeing the pigeon inside. Anything is possible in New York City.
The party rocked, and my high school buddy Matt provided the comedy highlight: Some drunk chick who I don't even fucking know comes up to me and says, "What's the best vodka you have?" "Umm, is Grey Goose ok? I can open the Ketel One if you want?" "Is Grey Goose the best?" she continues... I'm thinking, "Who the fuck are you? " but I'm too polite, and simply pour her a Grey Goose on the rocks. She quickly realizes she needs a mixer, and goes to open a new bottle of seltzer. The selzter sprays all over her red silk shirt, and Matt doesn't miss a beat: "A little selzter will get that right out." I'm fucking dying, as is Matt, and even the poor guy who's on a date with this chick is laughing, but she's flipping out, whining about how the shirt is silk, she got it in California, blah blah blah. I tell her to fucking chill, not quite like in Pulp Fiction "TELL THAT FUCKING BITCH TO CHILL!" but she keeps whining. I tell her to put a sock in it. Her date tells her to put a sock in it. She sulks away, and I marvel at Matt's seltzer response.
We eventually end the night in fine form, passing a bottle of Courvoisier amongst the WHS Class of 1994. Good Times.
-KD
"When was the last time you were downstairs?" she asked innocently.
"I don't know - Wednesday night?" I replied.
"Don't get mad - " she continued, which of course, IMMEDIATELY resulted in my interrupting:
"WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?" we have 50 people coming over tonight mind you...
"Don't worry, I'll clean it up - when were you last down there?" she keeps me on the hook...
I'm flipping out now - worried that I'm going to walk downstairs to a broken pipe and 3 inches of water or something.
"Just. Tell. Me. What. Happened." I enunciate slowly.
"Why don't you go downstairs and see if you can figure out what's wrong," she still won't tell me!
I walk down the stairs, fearing the worst, and come face to face with a soot covered pigeon perched on my leather couch! He apparently came down the fucking chimney! Soot is everywhere, and my couch and recliner are COVERED in pigeon shit. I can't help but laugh, and Mrs. Dynamite captured a tremendous photo on her cell phone of the pigeon sitting on the floor inside the apartment, with the neighbor's cat outside the window hungrily eyeing the pigeon inside. Anything is possible in New York City.
The party rocked, and my high school buddy Matt provided the comedy highlight: Some drunk chick who I don't even fucking know comes up to me and says, "What's the best vodka you have?" "Umm, is Grey Goose ok? I can open the Ketel One if you want?" "Is Grey Goose the best?" she continues... I'm thinking, "Who the fuck are you? " but I'm too polite, and simply pour her a Grey Goose on the rocks. She quickly realizes she needs a mixer, and goes to open a new bottle of seltzer. The selzter sprays all over her red silk shirt, and Matt doesn't miss a beat: "A little selzter will get that right out." I'm fucking dying, as is Matt, and even the poor guy who's on a date with this chick is laughing, but she's flipping out, whining about how the shirt is silk, she got it in California, blah blah blah. I tell her to fucking chill, not quite like in Pulp Fiction "TELL THAT FUCKING BITCH TO CHILL!" but she keeps whining. I tell her to put a sock in it. Her date tells her to put a sock in it. She sulks away, and I marvel at Matt's seltzer response.
We eventually end the night in fine form, passing a bottle of Courvoisier amongst the WHS Class of 1994. Good Times.
-KD
No comments:
Post a Comment