You: The venom-spewing malcontent standing outside of Virgin Records, the tattoo on your transparently pale shoulder read "Fuck Me", and the insanely tasteful combination of "ass-fuck" and "moose-knuckle" that came tumbling out of your Shrek-like mouth as I made the mistake of stepping on your toe in an effort to avoid getting disembowled by the equally life-hating bike messanger literally made my day. Thank you. It's not enough I have to take directions from humorless, jean-rolling ex-frat-d-bags all day, now I get treated to the verbal equation of getting my salad tossed by the love-child of Iggy Pop and Elvira, sans the big tits. And, had I not side-stepped away from that raging prick of a bike messengar, he would have knocked me into you, thus making my toe-stepping incident pale in comparison to the all-out head-butt I would have delivered in it's place.
Anyhoo, thanks for meeting my "drunken, hate-filled insults lobbed at you from a sociopath on Market street" quota for the whole fucking year. Typically, it takes me until at least October, but your onslaught of St. Ides drenched potty-mouth has me covered. I bow to you, oh Queen-Wench of all things unholy.
I'll always kick myself for not asking you your name...