So I decided not to have a party at my house for my birthday, because of some housemate difficulties.
Instead I went to a party in a shicky micky loft in the South End. It was pretty bumpin’, but at 1:30, some meatwads with badges stormed in, spoiling for a fight, as though they had stumbled upon the Happy Land in the Bronx. As we gathered our coats and our wits, something these gentleman clearly had no need for, we were ordered at top volume to be out in 30 seconds or go in the Wagon. I believe in our constitutional right to party on Lambchop’s Birthday. Or maybe I am a sucker for sarcasm. In any case, this thuggish behavior really teed me off and I started to holler “that’s right everyone, trample for the exits! We want bodies crushed on the stairs! MOVE!”
I won this round of “Most Likely to be Arrested”. I spent the rest of my birthday in the clink with a bunch of hookers, playing scrabble. At least they had a boombox. Chaka Khan, everybody!