Resting Bitchface.

As at time of writing, I observe "idle fascinations" of otherwise well-set persons; in that respect, I say pray for anyone, even those that seem okay--for one never knows for sure.

I was drinking Olde English out of a MSNBC anchor's shoe.  Not my most baller moment, but just a moment: does it need qualification?

Not my most baller moment, but then, my really baller moments aren't obvious to start with.  These go kind of hidden sometimes, and I just glaze over what might be some of the best stuff.

Somebody had beat the beejesus out of a Nash Rambler one time, and me and Bitchface had a dialogue about it, even while the cops were still there.  I shit you not, he was like a newspaper, the little Jethro Tull zygote of a psychobilly.  He could tell me all that was being said, all the popular take-up on it, and he had a line to Asset Protection, too.

They all said his slimy evil friend was a narc, but really, it was him himself, Bitchface, that I always saw chatting the Asset Protection people.

"Asset Protection" was the weird department heading.  They had Inventory, which was I.C.S.  And I remember, in the parlance, there was a code thing, E.lect R.on I.C.S.

I'd walk through there like a wrecking ball, going through them like the fog of memory, a rude hand diminishing an idle fascination, and them, millions per quarter, were but an idle fascination.

We had sang Eye of the Tiger one time.  Well.  Sort of.

Bitchface mentioned the song, and idiot me started singing it; his own anxieties wrestling with him, and me, facing down angry dogs and insolent children.  I had a mix of Lemon cough drop and rubbing alcohol(I used to drink that between paychecks), and I was just horrorshow, such that it was astounding they got anywhere near me at all: that said something about their hubris, I suppose, the strength and monumental stupidity of their intentions.

And I pertubed their intention, discombobulated, like brushing a cool hand through a spider web, by keeping my schedule.  some 1200 breakfast calories, then I go rescue a few cats from the trees; at lunchtime, some alcohol, hopeful real drinking alcohol, and not the stuff that they sterilize the tat needles with, and I go, pulling down the cats, rubbing their foreheads and ears, and I sit and mentally spit at Bitchface.

So he mentioned the song, and I sang it, and then went to the strip club(The Silver Moon), where I wound up escorted outside one of the girls who had too much to drink and had just gotten too sloppy to perform.  She had almost went face down in her friend's taco salad, too; I got her out of there because she was just making an ass of herself.

That was like the time my brother had a lady friend's underwear in his truck; like yeah, nothing happened, chud, and bitchface was a chet, chivalrous enough to keep her from choking, and I'm like: choking on what, and at momma's house, I had the backdoor on my end and two rooms, and an unction for weirdness.

The Nash Rambler would become one of those Richmond County cold cases.

The stripper has a crafting show on Youtube these days; a regular country club mom, I expect, no longer drinking into complete stupidity and yelling obscenties in public.  I hadn't mentioned that Drunk In Public before, but she would shout the most evil things, like some little lady passing by, and all of a sudden its the Vagina monologues or something.  For the sober person, it made a regular day more interesting, and those "idle fascinations" sort of got brushed aside so easily, like cobwebs trying to stand against a 20 pound sledgehammer.