For dinner tonight I ate like three fantastic sandwiches prepared by a male model and a giant delicious piece of cake made by a fairy princess in celebration of our friend K’s birthday. We were talking about BP (because that is more or less the ONLY THING I can talk about aside from Top Chef and that’s only when I’m sedated) and I said something along the lines of “I’m not an advocate of violent retribution, but I’d like to see the VP EVERY MEMBER of BP’s leadership strung up by his nuts in a public square”* and K interrupted me and said, “What do you mean you don’t believe in violence? Last time I saw you, you had just discovered that you’d spent your evening talking to [the dipshit daughter of a famous Republican] and you fell down on the floor in lamentation and said you felt like a time-traveler who missed the opportunity to kill Hitler by 15 minutes. Remember?”
I guess I remember that. And I guess he’s right.
Because later on when this dorky, middle aged couple came in I was reminded of that scene in Trainspotting where Renton, Begbie, Tommy et al mug a rich American tourist into the pub bathroom and I said as much to K and he said “See, I TOLD you you were a proponent of violence. And that’s why I like you.”
Oh, and speaking of violence (that I’m *not* an advocate of) as well as another bullshit medical condition, the Miami New Times has a very interesting story about “excited delirium,” aka “when the cops kill you in custody.”
*When I say shit like this, it makes me feel like my dad.
Stroke me.
