Futile Horn

02.27.2005 - 1:36 am (hey guess what my dork detector picked up)

Yo, if I eva be chillin wid the author of Works ‘n Days, I be all, G, yo rhymes is so Hellenic, dey should call u Greesiod.

Sigh, I haven’t had a human conversation with somebody in two or three days. I’ve been in cafes reading all day. Last night, a score of teen evangelists came in, I’m guessing from the First Barnes & Noble Baptist Church on Hennepin, but they didn’t try to convert me or anything. On the one hand I was too busy, but on the other starting a fight would have given me something to do. The kids I don’t mind, cus they are too naïve to know any better, but the old broad ringleader encouraging them to walk up to strangers on the street on a Friday night and babble on and on about Jesus ought to be Tasered. That’s just malicious.

Teen evangelists never talk to me for some reason. I like to think the reason is because I am always carrying a book written in a classical language (it always happens that way for some reason) and they are afraid I might confront them with actual facts about Jesus’ time.

Seriously, I get the feeling that Christians make an effort to stay wildly ignorant about Christ’s time, what with the heathens trying to mislead them, especially in the primary sources.

Learn some Greek, it won’t hurt you! Much, anyway.

Maegan is in Boston doing figure eights or something with eleven other girls… which I guess makes them figure ninety-sixes, which leaves me with fuck all to do. I think I’ve walked forty miles in the last few days, living off of nothing but cinnamon bagels. And I smell like the smelly plants at the coffee shop. I don’t know what that smell is, but ew. Ew!

Do you suppose all this laundry will fold itself?

Born to play the funky céilí,
Futile Horn