So I'm sitting here like a tomboy, drinking
Stella Artois. What the heck is going on?
'I've never drinked this stuff before' - that's
the way they say it, and I probably won't never
ever to do again. The only reason I'm here is
because the waitress is hot and I know she's got
a thing for me. Belgian beer in a Belgian cafe.
What more to do and what more to say?
I lift my glass to the underclass - the distressed,
the poor and the weary. But's that's all I lift. For the
rest, they can go to Hell. I really don't care about them.
I'm filthy rich, and I'm wealthy, and I own a Carribean
isle, and I've got two Swiss bank accounts and an offshore
shelter for my money. Anything I want, I've got. Anything
you want. I'll give ya', honey.
Some slumball nearby is scratching his lottery tickets - jerk
can't even find a dime to do it with. I throw one his way and
he's grateful as hell. Now all he has to do is win - or please,
clean up the mess of all those shavings. He just plunked
thirty bucks down to buy six five-dollar tickets. He looked
so stupified I at first thought he'd wait for them to call to
say he won. At least he's scratching off with verve.
I call her over and - yeah - send him another beer.
It's the least I can do : I want to go home with her, and
send him a thousand bucks as consolation. I'm sitting
here like a tomboy, drinking; and I'm quite
the real sensation too.