Have you met the prettiest girl in the world? She's right over there. No, over there. No, that one.
Isn't she pretty? Some people have called her "lovely," and "sublime." What the hell's with that? She's pretty, goddamn it.
Once I was having brunch with her at the Space Needle, and we were in line for custom omelets. All she had to say was "Ham and Swiss, please!" to the omelet maker guy and he dropped his pan of half-cooked eggs and then collapsed. Then he started to whimper.
"Don't worry," I said. "I'm sure egg will come out of this silk blouse really easily."
After brunch we went to the Fun Forest because she wanted to go on the Music Express ride. I wanted to go on the Wild River, but she said that the color of the fake log didn't complement her sweater and her hair would get wet, even though it was already raining.
She liked the Music Express because when she sat in an outside seat, her hair would flow out behind her like a curtain of radiant gold light, and the music would make it all be like being on MTV. I sat on the inside seat, which was still fun. But not for the kid in front of us whose barf stream sprayed my head.
When we got off the Music Express, there were a couple of fat, ugly girls leaning on the entrance railings, and they started saying very mean things. "Hey, ugly!" they said, and "Where'd you get your hair done...at the hair place that doesn't know how to do hair?"
She turned to them, and then it happened: she smiled. It was not just any smile. It was the smile of the Prettiest Girl in the World. Gleaming. Magnificent. (But not sublime.)
Then the clouds broke, the rain stopped, and light streamed down from the sky. I thought I heard angelic voices. The fat ugly girls shielded their eyes from the light, shrieked, and fell. But unfortunately for them, a worker had left on the ground a sheet of plywood into which he had hammered big, rusty railroad spikes. The ugly, impaled girls writhed in pain, twitched, and then became silent.
Then the Prettiest Girl in the World and I went and got giant soft pretzels.
Isn't she pretty? Some people have called her "lovely," and "sublime." What the hell's with that? She's pretty, goddamn it.
Once I was having brunch with her at the Space Needle, and we were in line for custom omelets. All she had to say was "Ham and Swiss, please!" to the omelet maker guy and he dropped his pan of half-cooked eggs and then collapsed. Then he started to whimper.
"Don't worry," I said. "I'm sure egg will come out of this silk blouse really easily."
After brunch we went to the Fun Forest because she wanted to go on the Music Express ride. I wanted to go on the Wild River, but she said that the color of the fake log didn't complement her sweater and her hair would get wet, even though it was already raining.
She liked the Music Express because when she sat in an outside seat, her hair would flow out behind her like a curtain of radiant gold light, and the music would make it all be like being on MTV. I sat on the inside seat, which was still fun. But not for the kid in front of us whose barf stream sprayed my head.
When we got off the Music Express, there were a couple of fat, ugly girls leaning on the entrance railings, and they started saying very mean things. "Hey, ugly!" they said, and "Where'd you get your hair done...at the hair place that doesn't know how to do hair?"
She turned to them, and then it happened: she smiled. It was not just any smile. It was the smile of the Prettiest Girl in the World. Gleaming. Magnificent. (But not sublime.)
Then the clouds broke, the rain stopped, and light streamed down from the sky. I thought I heard angelic voices. The fat ugly girls shielded their eyes from the light, shrieked, and fell. But unfortunately for them, a worker had left on the ground a sheet of plywood into which he had hammered big, rusty railroad spikes. The ugly, impaled girls writhed in pain, twitched, and then became silent.
Then the Prettiest Girl in the World and I went and got giant soft pretzels.
1 comment:
That's one hell of a blog.
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