Maybe Only Funny To Me

I work at this place now. It's a mess, a story for another time. I must be a writer somewhere deep down in my soul because I keep finding myself in these fucked-up situations that I can only deal with through "creative distance" otherwise my head would fucking explode.

My clientele is a buch of faux-sophisticated new money-types who can't help but order the most debased shit from me with varying degrees of unearned-ostentation.

On the weekends, there is a cover band, and they dance. I am no ageist, but there is something ludicrous, still. A bunch of parochial aspiring-WASP uneducated fucks drinking crappy, sugary drinks while dancing badly to Earth, Wind and Fire.

What are they worth?

A good line, sadly unusable in most contexts:

"A dance floor full of failed skincare regimens."

An evocative image only to anyone who has ever been there, I guess.

Oh well.

I still love you, even if you didn't want me to. Maybe especially because. Sadly. Or not.

1 comment:

Mongo, At The Moment said...

I debase myself with a similar crowd on a daily basis, but in a corporate environment. Some days it's all I can do to keep from dissolving in inappropriate laughter, because somewhere the Gods are laughing too, fit to bust.