I Feel Stupid

I was telling Sarita about the stupid cat today.  She walked over to my fucked-up door, did a little somethin' somethin', closed the door, and it clicked shut.  Damn.  It was better than Seifgried and Roy.  David Blaine.  The guy who does Bar Mitzvahs.

Except she told me her secret.  She just pulled out the brass thingie on the door jamb.  The female to the male lock.  It seems so crude to put it that way, but it's self-explanatory.  Unless you're a seahorse.  Or a starfish.

I met my friend, Rich, for a late lunch today at the kitschy Mexican restaurant around the corner.  Unfortunately, I mentioned to "Miss Dolly", the ancient waitress, that I'd just had a birthday.  Dammit if they didn't sing some royalty-free version of Happy Birthday.  But no flan.  Miss Dolly didn't think it would go well with my beer.  So she said.

I explained to MD that R was a Yankee.  From New York and all.  Jewish, to boot.  She regaled us with the story of her son's Navy friend from New York who demolished her kitchen looking for a wok.   He burned up her nice skillet trying to make some sort of exotic asian dish.  Long story short, she kicked him out.  And when she did, he tore up her yard doing doughnuts in the rental car.  It had rained.  I don't know if he was Jewish.

Just so you know, every time I stereotype Jewish people, I follow it with, "I love the Jews.  They're God's chosen people."  I'd hate for anyone to think I'm anti-semitic.  Same with African Americans.  Black men love me.  I have a big butt and thighs.  They like big legs.  If I need a confidence builder, I just go to the Kroger on Summer (the same one with carts that lock up if you go past the yellow line).  I get lots of affirmation there.

And that's hard to come by at The Good House...