My 1991 Honda Accord SE with flawless leather interior is sitting at 700 South Broadway, where Paul is waiting for Neicy at Northeast Denver Federal Credit Union to fax him a letter of credit. Neicy is waiting for Angie at Allstate to fax her proof of insurance. Angie is waiting for the DMV to fax her my driving record.

So I've spent the afternoon amusing myself by imagining how this daisy chain of fucktardedness could extend further. Perhaps Betty at the DMV is waiting at the VD clinic for Dr. Samuels to get back with her herpes prescription. But Dr. Samuels is at the Denver county courthouse, waiting for Judge Richardson to arrive so that his attorney can explain the difference between art and pornography, using certain photographs of children found in the good doctor's glove compartment as explanatory aids. Judge Richardson is in a small apartment in downtown Denver with his head wedged between the legs of his court reporter, waiting for her to have her goddam orgasm already. The court reporter is waiting for Dave and Lisa next door to quit yelling at each other -- there's no way she can concentrate on coming with all that racket going on. And Lisa is screaming at Dave that she sure as hell didn't give him those red welts on his cock, and it's that slut they met at Laura's party, isn't it? Bessie, right?

"Betty. Her name is Betty," Dave says quietly. "And I love her."

Tune in tomorrow to find out if I succeeded in chewing my own tongue off in frustration.

+posted by Lawrence @ 2/25/2004 04:57:00 PM