Last Laugh, Punk.

The following was written at 3:25 in the morning on Sunday, May 30th 2010. The "story," if you can even call it that, took place in 10 seconds. It felt good, which is why I'm sharing it with all of you.

As a journalism major, I assure you, everything is accurate to the best of my knowledge. Details, as far as I know, are not exaggerated. Enjoy.

Forward: I had just spent about 2 hours and 50 bucks on drinks at St. Jerome's in the lower east side, which is quickly becoming one of my favorite bars. I met up with Sam, Spencer, Manuel, Louise, Nick, and Nick's friend for many bottles of Budweiser (my wallet is now just starting to feel the massive weight loss). I worked a whole day at a shoot to promote, of all things, a Japanese coffee shop where, in true poser fashion, I had to stand around SoHo with my skateboard. Total herb status, but there's not much I wouldn't do for a hundred bucks. I felt like I deserved a $4.00 beer or ten.

Anyway, my best friends had to go back to their apartment in Harlem for the evening, leaving me to the rest of the wolves in the LES. Keep in mind, I'm nothing but a Jersey City bunny rabbit. Shortly thereafter, I received a text from a Turkish cutie with whom I tried to meet up saying she's tired from working all day and blah blah blah.

Woe. Is. Me. At least I got one free drink just for wearing a Slayer tee shirt my mommy got me when I was four. (Thanks mom!)

Downing my last beer I can consume without committing theft, I walked out into the balmy Spring night. By the time I got to Houston, all I wanted was to be in my shaky JC bed. I have the Exploding Hearts on my iPod as I cut west to the Port Authority Trans Hudson when a still-lit cigarette butt skids right towards my tattered, dirty, Sperry Top Siders. Like a baby bird following mama bird, another cigarette flies over my left shoulder landing just to the left of my leg.

I removed my headphones only to hear the cackling of a crowd in their late twenties. I swivel my neck and their are seven people wearing their bestest Hoboken/Financial district Saturday evening leisure wear (Four dudes and three chicks: Isn't it always the case that this group has a heftier dead weight tag-along?) Without batting an eye, I turn around as one gentlemen in a painted-on black tee shirt assures me, "I was just joking around, bro. It was just a joke."

To which I said, "Oh, you were just joking around?" And then I wound up...

And spit right in his face.

The last thing I saw before I turned around and proceeded to my train was something like a 12 year old victim on Slime Time Live or Super Sloppy Family Double Dare. Eyes closed and brows raised, miserable, but knowing that an audience of many had just witnessed his defeat. Worst still, the audience was a group of his friends saying, in unison, "Ohhhhhhhh..."

Knowing he wouldn't and couldn't do anything, I walked back to my train listening to one of my favorite records, Shattered.

My legs moved sans pause on that train, and all I wished was that my local dive's last call was at 4 and not 3.