Greetings fellow loyalists and Urbanites for the Struggle for Struggle's Sake (who know not the reason but sport Che Guevara T-shirts in shopping malls),
Last night I attended the annual pagan winter solstice party put on by the joint where I work, see? It was a swanky Hollywood affair; pre-packaged but on a scale to impress. You had to walk down a side ally to get in, lending a nostalgic wisp of the speakeasies of my charmed youth. Inside, they had the girlies in swings above the crowd. I think their movements were geared to power the electricity, which made all the lights go on and off. Meanwhile, kids danced orgiastically to the wanton rhythms of Xaviar Cugat and his orchestra --all in solemn observance of local custom.
There were endless rows of food trays under heat lamps. I piled my plate high with escargot, fried ants, sauteed centipede, and yogurt queen bee pupae. With trails of chewed bugs dribbling down my chin and ant legs filling in the gaps between my teeth, I proceeded to mingle.
It's a real study of the human animal to watch colleagues getting snockered. The same elites who wouldn't lend you a plug nickel are suddenly all loosey-goosey. They walk up and hand you their gold Rolex and lubriciously massage your calves. Dames leap out of the crowd trying to get an article of yer clothing like crazed groupies. And yet, I remain constant to my values and stay drunk all the time.
All in all, it was a good scene. I actually spent most of the evening smoking cigars and hangin' with the coat-check girl, as I wanted to spend some quality time with my jacket. We blew smoke rings at intimate areas of each other's body as I dangled upsidown from the rack.
Walking back to my car, I came across Bob Hope's star on the Blvd. I paused, got down on my hands and knees and kissed it in a moment of great pathos, contrasting to the frivolity I'd indulged. Finding it difficult to get back up, I spent the night sleeping there on the sidewalk where I dreamed a dreamy dream of being the next Isabel Sanford.