--So I am enjoying a beautiful July 3rd at Zuma beach. I am laying on my stomach reading "This Side of Paradise" and snacking on red seedless grapes. Suddenly, mid-sentence, a huge glob of brown mucas-like paste is slapped upon my pages, splashing onto my arm. A seagull shat on my fucking book. I picture that little son of a bitch circling overhead looking down on me and, like Jeff Daniels in "The Squid in the Whale," smuggly scoffing at my book as "early Fitzgerald." Snobby little shit.
--Is the 4th of July really the 4th of July if you don't see a single firework?
No comments:
Post a Comment