Aware of her pathological fears of both poverty and saying no, I made her take me to Cabrini-Green, which, if you're unfamiliar with the city of Chicago, is the socioeconomic equivalent to an empty bottle of malt liquor filled with infected syringes. I had her wear a sandwich board with BOTH MY PARENTS ARE DOCTORS in bold black text, and by the end of the night, at very little provocation, she had handed out almost six-hundred dollars to everyone who asked. Because she was such a trooper, I told her to close her eyes and that I was going to give her a surprise. Then I put a rat on her head. She cried some. Then I told her to close her eyes again because I really did have a good surprise. She closed her eyes, and then she was alone in an alley with a blind woman named Cline.



Looking back, it's a wonder how I got the massage table into the funeral home in the first place. Maybe the family was too grief-stricken to notice the guy in the Turkish bathrobe heating up stones in the corner. In fact, the only time they seemed pissed, really, was when she was squeezing out lotion during the eulogy and the bottle was making farting sounds. Either way, the only person who rested better than her grandpa that day was me. You know how I do¬órest in peace!



I waited until the day she got her wisdom teeth out to use this one. With the anesthetics wearing off and the added influence of Codeine, it was like going out with an extremely groggy Sean Penn from I Am Sam. Still very swollen, she looked like a Cabbage Patch Kid with jaundice, only unlike an actual Cabbage Patch Kid, no one in their right mind would've called her cute. Though I had a blast shining a flashlight in her eyes and spinning her on her barstool, she really made the night a drag when she started coughing out bloody cotton balls. It was like, "Hello, tryin' to eat here!" I guess that's women for you, never thinkin' about anyone but themselves! Who gets someone a coupon book, anyway?



After the gravy/blood transfusion, I stuffed her gullet with chopped sage, polenta, parsley, and finely grated Parmigiano-Reggiano. Next I cooked her slowly-about twenty minutes per pound. Then I called all the Native Americans in the phone book and we celebrated Thanksgiving II: Ultimate Reconciliation (We made T-shirts!). We agreed that sharing the flesh of an innocent white girl counted as partial atonement for hundreds of years of oppression. All in all, it was a good day (although Carries Snakes In Basket popped the volleyball with his tomahawk :(). Expectedly, the GF was pissed, but we went out for coffee later and she seemed to be fine. Sometimes she just can't take a joke!