I went out to see DJ Mark E. Quark at a local spot called the Cirrus Room. I was planning a fun-filled, frolicsome evening with myself, some grooves and a bottle of smuggled Monopolowa Vodka, and I was really looking forward to getting out of my house and out of my head for just a little while and catching some serious thumpety-thump on the dancefloor (you know how well us white-folk dance.)
Anyhoooo, I decided that I needed to get something to line my stomach before I began the intense process of destroying my liver, so I went to P.F. Chang's, a "happening" Chinese bistro. I managed to find rock-star parking very close by the busy downtown area, but when I entered I found the place filled with rather slimy yuppie-larvae types with cell-phones attached permanently to their earrings; the wait was an atrocious 1.5 hours, so I decided to bail and go for some sushi at Pango's instead.
I walked out to my car...my car...WHERE IN THE NAME OF MANY-PHALLUSED GANESHA IS MY FUCKING CAR?!? Apparently some tow-truck driving scumster had been bird-dogging the spot and just waiting for an unsuspecting schmuck (that's me) to not see the sign partially concealed by a shrub and park there. I was in the restaurant 10 MINUTES and my car had disappeared like a mooching brother-in-law when the bar-tab was due. Then I did a very boy thing...I punched a nearby garage door. Yes, I know it was stupid (I quickly realized this when my knuckles swelled up to twice their original size.) I'm not normally prone to such displays, but there's something about tow-truck drivers and meter-maids that sends me from the comforting confines of rational thought into the screaming banshee-embrace of utter and complete rage. I think I acquired this trait during a stint in Boston, where there's no place to park and if you DO park you get a ticket or towed no matter what time of the day it is or even if your car is buried in 4 ft. of snowdrift.
I ended up having to call a friend to drive me out to the airport and pay $130 dollars CASH ONLY to get my car paroled (that's for a total of TWO HOURS) of towing and stowage. What a racket. I could only think murderous thoughts while I cradled my aching hand and plunked down twenties in front of the Jabba-the-Slut looking piece of trailer-trash at the towing office. I hope she gets leprosy and her labia rot off.
So instead of a relatively inexpensive night where I got to eat some good Chinese or Japanese food, I spent a wad of cash and ended up dining at McDonald's...yet ANOTHER thing to blame tow-truck drivers for. I ended up good and soused by the end of this evening, and at some point in a drunken discussion on the dancefloor with random people it was decided that there would be a 10th circle of Dante's hell created for meter maids, tow-truck drivers and Fran Drescher (from the TV sitcom "The Nanny" because she's REALLY annoying.) We still haven't decided what tortures to inflict on them, but I'm sure I'll settle on something eventually. Maybe having their extremities slowly dissolved in the stomach-acids of immense Venus Fly Traps. We'll see...
Anyhoooo, I decided that I needed to get something to line my stomach before I began the intense process of destroying my liver, so I went to P.F. Chang's, a "happening" Chinese bistro. I managed to find rock-star parking very close by the busy downtown area, but when I entered I found the place filled with rather slimy yuppie-larvae types with cell-phones attached permanently to their earrings; the wait was an atrocious 1.5 hours, so I decided to bail and go for some sushi at Pango's instead.
I walked out to my car...my car...WHERE IN THE NAME OF MANY-PHALLUSED GANESHA IS MY FUCKING CAR?!? Apparently some tow-truck driving scumster had been bird-dogging the spot and just waiting for an unsuspecting schmuck (that's me) to not see the sign partially concealed by a shrub and park there. I was in the restaurant 10 MINUTES and my car had disappeared like a mooching brother-in-law when the bar-tab was due. Then I did a very boy thing...I punched a nearby garage door. Yes, I know it was stupid (I quickly realized this when my knuckles swelled up to twice their original size.) I'm not normally prone to such displays, but there's something about tow-truck drivers and meter-maids that sends me from the comforting confines of rational thought into the screaming banshee-embrace of utter and complete rage. I think I acquired this trait during a stint in Boston, where there's no place to park and if you DO park you get a ticket or towed no matter what time of the day it is or even if your car is buried in 4 ft. of snowdrift.
I ended up having to call a friend to drive me out to the airport and pay $130 dollars CASH ONLY to get my car paroled (that's for a total of TWO HOURS) of towing and stowage. What a racket. I could only think murderous thoughts while I cradled my aching hand and plunked down twenties in front of the Jabba-the-Slut looking piece of trailer-trash at the towing office. I hope she gets leprosy and her labia rot off.
So instead of a relatively inexpensive night where I got to eat some good Chinese or Japanese food, I spent a wad of cash and ended up dining at McDonald's...yet ANOTHER thing to blame tow-truck drivers for. I ended up good and soused by the end of this evening, and at some point in a drunken discussion on the dancefloor with random people it was decided that there would be a 10th circle of Dante's hell created for meter maids, tow-truck drivers and Fran Drescher (from the TV sitcom "The Nanny" because she's REALLY annoying.) We still haven't decided what tortures to inflict on them, but I'm sure I'll settle on something eventually. Maybe having their extremities slowly dissolved in the stomach-acids of immense Venus Fly Traps. We'll see...
