Crap That Crossed My Mind on the M103 You Need To Know

• A big fat ass--the kind that can get in the way of the person who owns one- can make for a peculiar sight. As an artist, I'm drawn to drawing/sculpting/describing interesting shapes, and let me tell you something, the world is full of 'em. After much thought, I'm sure the attraction isn't sexual for me, but I understand that a significant part of the male human population does deem a big fat ass a requirement (I just returned from consecutive trips Puerto Rico and Fire Island, after all). Of course, perhaps I find the fat ass remarkable because don't have a fat ass of my own. As it happens, I did not grow up in a family of fat asses to speak of, even counting the "married-ins," if you will.  Naturally, I've got my own share of physical anomalies, but in the ass department, I'm evidently part of the less glutes/all bones clan. Genus: NoAssAtAll. Phylum: Small. Not anyone's fave that I know of, but it's no doubt a thing on the internetz somewhere. And I imagine that if I had a fat ass, even though it could cause capacity problems for me/others in the cramped quarters of the subway, I'd like to think that the idea also might be completely fantastic at times. I mean, having a big fat ass might be just like sitting in a comfy, cushiony, feathery, delightful, heavenly, bean bag chair.  A comfy, cushiony, feathery, delightful, heavenly bean bag chair, all the time. Everywhere. Like your own personal foam stadium cushion that you can leave behind at the Bills Tailgate in the Meadowlands even though you're hammered on Mr. T's Bloodys. Why? Because it's totally attached to your body, silly! Whether you like it or not. it's attached, yo! Wooden, backless bar stool for drinks with wooden, backless man for 13 minutes? Comfy. Grand stand at the US Open at Bethpage Black in Long Island for 1.75 hours? Comfy. Industrial plastic seat on rush-hour bus for 2 hours? Comfy. Crappy sofa you can't afford to replace for 3 hours? COMFY! The concrete floor of Penn Station and/or the terrazzo floor Grand Central after too many Jager Bombs at Happy Hour for 4 hours?  THE COMFIEST, dude! COMFIEST! IT'S ALL COMFY! COMFY MEANS COMFORTABLE AND COMFY IS SHORT FOR COMFORTABLE! Dude. Dig it. Comfy. Comf. 
• I can say with 100% certainty that a chore I will never do is attempt to scrub the black ink stains from an absurd black pen explosion out of the hot pink lining of my light-skinned, snake-colored, python-simulate plastic handbag. The handbag, a terrible (but passing), functional, stylish and affordable stab at "I'm Not Only Relevant, I'm Not Homeless... Yet," will see the inside of a thrift store and/or garbage can before any scrubbing ever happens. Ever. And that, folks, is a guarantee. I don't think I make many of these here "guarantees," so go ahead and chew on this one. It's delicious. Totes. 
• Speaking of stains, I'm reminded as I talk at you about a very interesting story about my former downstairs neighbors. Stop me if I've told you this very interesting tale before, but since I'm telling it at you in the terms of blogging at you and not to you, I can't respond in kind, so I'm just going to go with it and go with my original story of telling it at you.  Now, I'll never recall the individual names of the couple for the life of me, but their cute, fat, one-eyed cat's name was Claire. She'd sneak upstairs into my place and eat Doodle's food which REALLY pissed Doodle off --she's still scarred from it--and she'd get all Rrrrrrrrrrrrr!, but Doodle's always known she's a runt, that she's all meow and no real bite, unless, of course, she's got no other choice and she'll tear your nose off: doodle's a Beta Cat all the way. Anyhow, Claire's human companions were a married couple who met in college in Ohio--he was a struggling actor (originally from Ohio), and she was a caterer (Aussie-born and bred),  and we had a nice relationship based around feeding Doodle or Claire when one or the other was traveling. This was back in the day when I was working as nights behind the bar, and one afternoon, I saw the husband in the laundry room, and we had a pleasant, neighborly conversation at the washers. While I loaded my washer with dirty laundry, he, atop his, scrubbed the crotch of his wife's panties in between sprays of Shout. I remember thinking to myself that the odds were low that I'd ever find a man who would do that for me. (Was it for him?) Now I wonder how comfortable I'd be if I had. Anyhow, they moved back to Ohio. I wonder how those a-holes are doing. Not really. Give me a break. We all know how they're doing.