Deep from the frozen bowels of a dyspeptic winter, a lone commuter staggers toward the bus stop. From between a woolen scarf and a hat pulled down as low as possible, a reddish nose peeks out. If you listen closely, you can hear said commuter muttering something about perseverance and determination.
And that commuter, ladies and gentlemen, was none other than Justin Bieber*.
The week has been a bust, frankly. But what about the weekend? Will that be a bust as well? If only there was some way of knowing!
But there is.
In light of my belief that my shuffled playlist, heard on my commute into the city on a Friday morning, holds some mystical implications for the weekend, I bring to you, absolutely mostly-live and, I might add, fully paid for, the mighty oracle that is the iPod:
Jump in the Pool by Friendly Fires
High Clouds and a Chance of Wayne by Wayne Bergeron
Totally Nude by The Wallets
Ain’t No Friend of Mine by Mason Jennings
Everybody’s Got Something to Hide (‘cept for Me and my Monkey) by The Beatles
Step It Up by The Bamboos
I Want Some More by Dan Auerbach
And there you have it. And now that you have it, I’m thinking a stiff round of antibiotics oughta take care of it…
What’s that? You don’t have any antibiotics? Shoot – I can front you a pill or bit of ointment. Honestly, between the pink eye and the ear infection, I think can come up with something.
Pink eye. Pfft. What adult gets that? What next? Thrush? Cradle Cap?
Speaking of Cradle Cap, I gave myself a case of Vandal-Fighters Thumb this morning.
My stance on vandalism is well known in these parts: I’m against it. And there, in my three-sided, glass bus enclosure, a moron and a green felt tip pen collided in a semi-literate display of self-satisfaction.
First there was a phone number listed below the phrase “For Free Heab”. Heab? Free heab? Ladies and gentlemen, if you’re out this weekend and someone suggests the possibility of free heab, I suggest you proceed with caution.
Free heab may lead to free biseases.
I’ve rubbed it out, of course; and I have the green thumb to prove it.
I also rubbed out Taylor loves – well, we’ll never know who Taylor loves, now. Both Taylor and the object of her affection have been rubbed off the bus shelter, the memory of which lies only with Taylor and my stained thumb. The script was hard to read, anyway, a convoluted series of squiggles and dots. Judging by the penmanship, however, Taylor is young and will no doubt proclaim her love for future beaux in similarly public ways.
And I will be here, sacrificing my thumb nail and skin color to do it.
* I don't know what that means other than maybe being sick of his haircut...
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