So, across the street from our Irving-ree-la here in Brooklyn is located the most ridiculously crappy bodega in all of the crappy world. Its shelves overflow with only the most expired of weird products, in addition to the most perfectly random, dusty, not for sale bric-a-brac.
Oh, and why not throw some cats in there. Yea, that's good, drape them about like bunch of sloppy clowns.
So where I'm going with this is: its owner is this woman from a Spanish-speaking country, who doesn't do much English-speaking, but does plenty of Irving-judging.
Sure, we basically only buy beer, toilet paper, and the occasional candy bar from her candy bars-only-deli case, so maybe her assumption that these items comprise our entire diet would be deserved fodder to fill her cannons what be firing judgmental looks on the reg...
But atop that, she stands on the street corner all day, casting glares up through our windows as I lawfully strut about our creepartment shirtless, hatted, and maybe also singing.
And really, it's more her fault than ours that it requires drinking a few cocktails for a person to even consider shopping at her bodeguernica, so the fact that we are, on occasion, less than 'not drunk' should be stricken from the record in the prejudiced case that I just know she has against us.
So we suffer sentences of half-smiling, sideways looks, and the shakings of a head in utterance of a Spanish idiom that roughly translates to 'confused disgust'.
Hey lady! Guess what?! I'm a weird person. Consider these observations a sneak-preview of the straight to 6 train dvd-bootlegger's bag movie, which will be based on the tell-all My Little Pony diary entry, written unauthorized by my brother Peter, and maliciously e-published post-my eating the last of his marzipan in the freezer just to spite him because I don't even like marzipan. If you follow.
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