I’m incredibly sluggish after my return from Humilityville, aka Vegas. Apparently aside from a large wad of cash, I’ve also been robbed of my standard cognative and analytical faculties. Example: while walking back to my car after lunch with some friends, I dropped into this magazine shop. As I was browsing around, a delighfully charming (by charming I mean damned dirty hippie) fellow turns a magazine around in front of my face and exclaims “DUH HUH! CHECK OUT THESE BEAUTIES!” I was greeting by the ocular pleasure of about 20 little mounds of weed. Now, I stood for just a second staring, because I knew in the back of my mind that my brain was performing it’s normal search of my database of nearly 30,000 random insults that will both baffle and humiliate any burnout (assuming he has the brain cells necessary to comprehend my well-timed verbal assault). However, today my poor grey matter balked at the task. I suppose I killed off one too many brain cells this weekend in Sin City, reducing me to low level chuckling just like my Birkenstock sporting neighbor. As this stupifying exchange of hyucks now made us idiot-buddies, I decided to vacate the premises before he decided to hit me up for money.
By the by, I’m not mocking dirty hippies or stoners as a culture, I’m merely mocking this particular dirty hippie stoner. Lord knows if I were in his position, I’d try to refrain from publicly advertising my illegal activities in one of the most cop-riddled towns in the US. To each his own, I guess.
