One Time, I Was Giovanni Ribisied

I was talking to a friend the other day, and she told me that she used to write poetry. She wrote dark stuff. Tortured stuff. She was a stand up comedian. I asked why she no longer did it, and she replied, "I live in Barcelona now. What am I supposed to say? The weather is good, and my friends are nice?" She had an excellent point.

I can't write anything serious because I don't have a serious life, and the only way I could produce something convincingly wounded is if I were actually wounded. Wish Granted!

I'm sure most of you have experienced the unadulterated horror (pronounced whore) that is streptococcal pharyngitis (pronounced like the worst expletive you can think of right now). What you may not understand, however, is that it's much more serious and painful when I get it. It's also difficult to speak, so I have to tell everyone about it. Some suggested that I post something and take advantage of all this new free time I have to writhe around in bed. The thought of using my brain at a time like this is absurd enough. The thought of typing something other than Death. Shhhhhweet Death. Someone please come into my room and kill me. I don't care if it's dirty as long as it's fast. Si us plau? Si us? Si? just isn't possible. At least, that's what I thought.

It didn't come in soft. It came in hard and brassy. I *ran to the terrace, thinking, "Yay! Oh boy! Oh gee! It's a parade! A parade is coming! Everyone come see!" A shockingly large number of my vecinos and I dangled half our bodies over the rails frantically trying to catch sight of at least 50 musically talented but sexually confused individuals willing to wear matching uniforms, plumed hats and dingle ball boots while stepping in time. Eventually we all figured out that the music was coming from an individual's window. Somebody was **Giovanni Ribisiing us with marching band music! It even had an applause track after every song and was turned up way past 11.

I am so pissed that I'm sick AND didn't get to see a parade, so I'm going to channel that pain into prose for the first time:

I place the blame on you, Man.
Man whose name and face I do not know but do know that they are not the name and face of Giovanni Ribisi.
I wish I could play a giant trumpet, Man.
A giant trumpet with a giant spit valve.
I would empty my poisonous, acidic, hot lava spit right into your apartment, Man.
If I could, I would.
If I could, I would.
You are clearly not a woman, Man.

This is how marching bands make me feel. Better.




*slid off my bed and shuffled out to the terrace saying, "Ow, ow, ow..."
**see The Other Sister like you haven't already. Yeah right.