I don’t make the trek to downtown Los Angeles very often. But last night, well, something just drew me there. Like a force more powerful than the tractor beam on the Death Star, I found my car travelling faster and faster towards that mass of glowing monoliths. What could possibly possess Smivey, chicken of all chickens, to venture into the scary streets of downtown in the middle of the night? The answer should be quite obvious: I needed crack and I needed it bad. Heh. No, I’m kidding. I had plenty of crack (always do). I was just on my way to meet my stalker.
Yes, that’s right: my stalker. On occasion, I find myself being stalked. Usually, it’s by someone who’s only interested in making a pillow out of my beard trimmings. But sometimes, it’s just a really nice person who wants to get to know me better and carve me up with a steak knife. Yeah, I’ve got some pretty fucked up fans.
Anyhow, as I made my way eastbound on the 10 freeway, thoughts started racing through my head:
Who was this mysterious woman I was about to meet? Would she be everything I imagined? What if she turned out to be a man? If she was a man, would she at least look pretty hot and not too manly? Some of those transsexuals can fool just about anyone. I hear they smell pretty nice, too. Speaking of smelling nice, I need to pick up another bottle of Cucumber Melon Shower Gel at Trader Joe’s. That stuff is great and it makes me smell all cucumber-and-melony. Oh, shit. That was my off-ramp. Motherfucker! Get out of my way!
After getting lost in a labyrinth of one-way streets, I finally found my destination: a quaint little wine bar on Spring St. The moment our eyes met, I knew it was her. Why? Well, it might have had something to do with the way she smiled at me. But mostly it was because of the t-shirt she was wearing. A photo of my face was on it.
“Hi,” I said, “I’m S–”
“SMIVEY!” She jumped on me.
“Uh, hello. That hurts.”
She let go. “Oh, sorry.” She smiled at me.
“Uh, shall we sit down and order?”
“Hm? Oh, sure. Sure!”
We took a seat near the window and perused the wine list together. She’s one of those people who knows a lot about wine. What do you call those people again? Oh, right: a snob. Heh. Anyhow, I think she ended up choosing some boring French wine. I decided to be a bit more adventurous and went with the White Zinfandel flight. Fifteen minutes later (How long does it take to pour four fucking glasses of wine?), our bartender brought out our selections.
My stalker was served her vino in a simple but elegant hand-blown crystal glass. My White Zinfandel flight was a bit more complicated. It included a special placemat that had the names of each of the three wines on it, as well as a fun wordsearch puzzle and a crayon. The wine itself was served in three elegant plastic collectors cups from Burger King, featuring the characters from the movie Battleship Earth. I took a sip from the first cup (Ker) and swished the pink liquid around in my mouth. I tasted subtle notes of gumdrops and Red Vines. My stalker tasted hers. She was not impressed. She said it “finished short.” Attempting to sound just as intelligent, I explained that I thought my wine had also finished short. “In fact,” I said, “I don’t know if it ever made it to our table.” She laughed. I frowned. That was not supposed to be a joke.
After I slammed down my wine (bitch bartender wouldn’t let me keep the collectors cups), I suggested we go for a walk. Well, as luck would have it, this chick is some kind of walking encyclopaedia of all things skid row. As we strolled down the sidewalks and manoeuvred our way through the different breeds of dog droppings, my stalker pointed out the various structures and explained the history of each building to me. It was all quite fascinating—but the evening was not without its scary moments.
During our stroll, a homeless man approached us and requested some money for busfare. I told him to take a hike. He spat on my shoes, shoved me in the chest, and told me to fuck off. Jeeze, I was only trying to help. If he hadn’t spat on my shoes, I would have explained to him that the last time I went on a hike, I found a wallet with about $400 in it. I thought he might have the same kind of luck, not to mention the fact that it’s just good exercise. Whatever. His loss.
Anyhow, before I knew what was happening, the evening had come to a close. This was not just because of the whirlwind of excitement and joy I was experiencing throughout the evening. No, it had more to do with that White Zinfandel flight I pounded earlier. I woke up face down in an alleyway on a pile of trash bags that had obviously been left out for more than a week (whoa, déjà vu). As I was getting up, I found a note that was shoved into my pocket. It read:
Dear, Smivey
Thank you for a lovely time. Did you really pass out from drinking that wimpy White Zinfandel flight? Talk about being a lightweight! Ha! Anyway, let’s do it again sometime!
Love,
Your Stalker
PS: That homeless guy stole your wallet.
That motherfucker.
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