the futon don
the worst is over, the storm has passed. evidence: today someone called me "a real piece of work" and it made me laugh. eesh. apologies to kerry from the other night whose remark ended up cleaved and strewn about my house in my stress- and hormone-induced craze.
i should wear a pirate outfit during these times of high anxiety. with a little makeup i could give johnny depp's caribbean capn a run for his money. it'd add a little stagger and a lot of pinache to my callousess.
so back to the guy who called me "a real piece of work." tony. anthony if you prefer. he works at or runs a place called...ready?...the futon don. i am not kidding. the futon don. 31851 gratiot, roseville, michigan 48066. their business card has the word "don" wearing a bowler hat or a--sorry, i don't know the name of the elegant black hat old italian men wear. i swear i am not making this up.
he made fun small talk, asked me what i do for a living, wrote up my due bill, talked my ear off, laughed at the appropriate comments, called me "a real comedian."
he had to spell my name on the receipt.
"m-u-s-z...c'mon, c'mon...y-n-ski...ah! a polak."
he looked up, bright eyes.
"the polaks loooove the italians." his head rolled around in a big circle while he said this. he is, you see, a comedian too.
"they DO." i laughed. "and the italians..." i purse my lips... "love everybody."
his turn to laugh.
"how do you know?" he wanted specifics.
"a lover from rome."
"aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawd..." he was cackling now as he answered the phone. "futon don tony."
i am not making this up.
he got off the phone.
"from italy eh. the polaks loooooooooooove the italians.... sometimes i wish i were single." he turns his high-beams on. "there are some women out there who need me."
"i'm sure of it," i reply.
"your guy now. italian?"
"i thought i was safe. i figured he was dutch. he's too damn tall to be italian."
"but he's italian, isn't he."
"aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. busted."
"the polaks love the italians," he said again.
yeah. i guess they do. and that guy from rome. he went away. the hurts and the storms, they do go away.
i should wear a pirate outfit during these times of high anxiety. with a little makeup i could give johnny depp's caribbean capn a run for his money. it'd add a little stagger and a lot of pinache to my callousess.
so back to the guy who called me "a real piece of work." tony. anthony if you prefer. he works at or runs a place called...ready?...the futon don. i am not kidding. the futon don. 31851 gratiot, roseville, michigan 48066. their business card has the word "don" wearing a bowler hat or a--sorry, i don't know the name of the elegant black hat old italian men wear. i swear i am not making this up.
he made fun small talk, asked me what i do for a living, wrote up my due bill, talked my ear off, laughed at the appropriate comments, called me "a real comedian."
he had to spell my name on the receipt.
"m-u-s-z...c'mon, c'mon...y-n-ski...ah! a polak."
he looked up, bright eyes.
"the polaks loooove the italians." his head rolled around in a big circle while he said this. he is, you see, a comedian too.
"they DO." i laughed. "and the italians..." i purse my lips... "love everybody."
his turn to laugh.
"how do you know?" he wanted specifics.
"a lover from rome."
"aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawd..." he was cackling now as he answered the phone. "futon don tony."
i am not making this up.
he got off the phone.
"from italy eh. the polaks loooooooooooove the italians.... sometimes i wish i were single." he turns his high-beams on. "there are some women out there who need me."
"i'm sure of it," i reply.
"your guy now. italian?"
"i thought i was safe. i figured he was dutch. he's too damn tall to be italian."
"but he's italian, isn't he."
"aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. busted."
"the polaks love the italians," he said again.
yeah. i guess they do. and that guy from rome. he went away. the hurts and the storms, they do go away.
posted by stacy muszynski at 5:34 PM
1 Comments:
great post. great site.
cheers,
j.
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