Ol' Rambling Drunk Guy in May '04

Goodnight One Eye�Wherever you are. (Week of 5/30/2004)

Ah Memorial Day, my time to shine. When I dust off my old dignity out of my back pocket and think about old friends long gone. Stinky Joe, Old One Eye & Eight ball. Ah goodtimes. Dead? No they ain�t dead. Shoot son there weren�t but half dozen non friendly fire casualties in Grenada. Old one did turn green as a nutmeg tree when he lit up a Cuban he lifted of a dead guy. Oh man did he have the mudslides for a week after that. The only man I ever knew who went to the infirmary with butt problems. Ah memories, well quesadilla. It�s the happiest day I have till Memorial Day, when that and Salisbury steak day at the mission.

Leaves of Grass (Week of 5/23/2004)

Keep off the grass, yeah and I�m Carson Daly. So I am sitting there staring at the clouds. There was a hint of lilac and jasmine is in t he air, when all of the sudden the punk kids start playing Frisbee badminton right over me. I started yelling at them and I got pelted with shuttlecocks. So I did the only thing I could do, I picked them all up and I ran. What in the hell is a homeless guy going to do with 15 shuttlecocks? Aw hell, maybe I should just march over to the sporting goods store to see if I can rustle up enough cash for a tasty Shiner Bock.

The Nutmeg�. The Nutmeg (Week of 5/16/2004)

So here I am strolling down 11th st, happy and a newly opened bottle. When all of the sudden I run smack into a group of war protesters outside the bodega. That really popped my cork, I am a veteran damn it. I fought to the death in Grenada. Did I get a parade when I got back? No! Did I get a medal? No! All I got was a complimentary jar of nutmeg and this substance abuse problem. So I threw my feces at them and ran. I�m a bad monkey.

What do you mean, �I Can�t Smoke Here?�(Week of 5/9/2004)

�Hey You! Put out that cigarette.� , the single ugliest phrase in the human lexicon. So here I was, walking down to Liquorsville (you know the corner of 7th & 7th) anywho, I rounded a corner and I heard a disturbing sound. I heard the jingle jangle of a thousand little nails being pounded into a 100 no smoking signs. �Puff Puff.� said my little tobacco friend, as he smoked out a tiny little tear of sorrow. All he wants is a chance to live. A chance to fill my lungs with sweet delicious smoky goodness and then maybe grab that last chance for double happiness with a little second hand smoke. He never wanted to hurt anyone, really. Just give him a chance, OH WHY WON�T YOU LET HIM LIVE!!!

Free the Stoli Seven! VIVA LA Reinebriloution!(Week of 5/2/2004)

Fellow Bums! Uncomfortable Rich White folks and Punk Kids, lend me your ears. I shall spin you a yarn of woe and toil. Our Cause is a worthy one my brethren. We the enlightened members of the liquortariat shall one day rise up and throw off the shackles of the Sobergeoisie. We have seven of our member currently incarcerated at the 32nd street station, in what the dogs of the Sobergeoisie call a �Drunk Tank.� GO FORTH my inebriated brothers and sisters and yell incoherently at your local cop. Storm the gates of their Ivory tower liquor stores! Together we will bring down the Sobergeoisie and establish the Booztopia!

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