“Here I sit broken hearted, come shit and only farted”
What profound words. So profound in fact that man throughout time have felt some primordial, dude-like urge to etch them into bathroom stalls all over the continental US for as long as bathroom stalls have been around. It’s fascinating, really.
As I am thrown headfirst into the toilet at the Razor’s Edge, these prolific words catch my eye. God knows why, there are a million other things far more important right now than some stupid limerick I’ve seen written a million times in a million shitters in a million bars. There’s the 220-pound Neanderthal with the killer fade haircut standing over me, there’s the girls at the bar, Sarah and Jessie? Sammy and Jenny? There’s the rest of cast of the Jersey shore, watching on as The Situation hands me my ass…and for some reason, all I see – “Here I sit broken hearted, come to shit and only farted,”
I struggle to hold my breath, try to break free and try not to pay attention to what’s floating around my face. How did the night get this out of hand? It’s only a Tuesday, for Christ’s sake. I’ve just been so bored lately. There’s really nothing else to do besides drink.
“Who looks like an ass hole now, fuck face? Huh? You got some fucking mouth on you, for a hippie,” the guy with the new haircut says, mainly to himself because I’m pretty sure his two buddies left to try and bag the girls they roofied earlier. Anyway, I assume his question is rhetorical because he isn’t letting me come up for air.
I am running out of breath so I kick furiously and somehow make contact. I hear a yelp and pressure is relieved from my head. I get up and Tony or Pauly or Vinny is lying on his back, on top of the bathroom stall door. I kick him in the ribs four or five times and shake my long, soaking wet hair, covered in and smelling of piss and beer and shit onto his face.
“YOU. YOU look like an ass hole, now. And I’m not a fucking hippie, you greasy piece of shit. Jesus, can’t you get girls on your own? Do you really have drug them, man? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
When he stops grunting intelligible caveman sounds, I take his jacket and wipe my hair and face off then walk out. Out in the bar I quickly look around for Mike but it appears he already left with Jackie. Oh yeah, they left a while ago, before the kid with the new haircut and his crew of assholes roofied my friends because I was talking shit. The girls told me to shut up, but these guys were being huge douche bags. Shit, is it really a Tuesday?
I try not to make a scene and slip out the back so the bouncer doesn’t have to grab me and tell me to get the FUCK out again. Frank’s nice, but he has a tendency to repeat himself.
I’m at the crosswalk on Easton Avenue staring at the red blinking hand when I hear something behind me and then suddenly I feel something solid connect with my head. I should have figured someone else took the girls home. I guess Pauly’s friends had nothing better to do then to wait around for me. I don’t even get a chance to get some good punches in because the bastards sucker punched me and now I’m down on the ground and there’s snow in my eyes and it hurts like shit when the kid with the Timberlands kicks me in the mouth and fuck, why did I even come out tonight it’s a fucking Wednesday and I’m broke as hell and I can’t feel anything anymore because it’s so cold and I’m so drunk and after a while the pain just stops hurting anyway and the snow is falling and it really looks beautiful if you take a minute and just watch it fall on the broken sidewalk…