I passed a store window in the Castro that featured a pair of socks with the slogan “I (heart) my penis” embroidered on each one. I must have them.
On my way to the mailbox, I sighed and stepped over a baby bird that had fallen from his nest to the sidewalk. A few moments later, I noticed a well-dressed man walking in my direction. I could see from half a block away that he was talking to himself. We had just passed one another when I heard him mutter, “I’m still lonely.” So that was a bummer.
Have you ever tried Pepto-Bismol? Even the name sounds like someone vomiting. Bismol. Biiiismmooooohhhhl. But when I’m about hoik up my intestines, I always think to myself, “Boy, howdy! What I could use right now is a nice little plastic cup brimming with pink, minty, viscous fluid.”
A teenage boy ascends from the subway wearing a T-shirt that screams “I GOT CRABS AT TOMMY’S CRAB SHACK.”
The guy on the treadmill in front of me was muscle-bound, had a shaved head, and was wearing one of those tank tops with armholes cut down to his waist. He was reading “The Big Book of Torch Songs.”