Lame Adventure 71: She’s Baaaaaaaaaaaaack!

Milton and I spent most of Sunday on the phone talking to each other in our respective hovels on the East and West Sides of Manhattan.  We were busy adding Lame Adventures to Facebook (something I had hoped to avoid doing forever) and solving the mysteries of Twitter.  The fact that I bombarded him with so many irritating questions (“I swear I don’t have that button on my screen!  Where’s it on yours?”) encouraged him to guzzle a fifth of Maker’s Mark.  This might have also delayed our progress a tad.

We finally accomplished our goals around ten in the evening and then Milton spent the next hour complaining to me in a slurred voice about how much he did not want to return to work on Monday.  Ever the loyal friend, I expressed a similar opinion, also with slurred speech, even though I had only polished off a quart of Lipton Cold Brew iced tea.  Just as we were saying goodnight, Milton instantly sobered:

Milton:  I forgot to tell you!

Me:  What?

Milton:  Blow Tart shops at my supermarket!

Even though I heard him perfectly, I said:

Me:  What?

Milton (insistent):  Blow Tart shops at my supermarket!

Blow Tart, for the unaware Lame Adventures reader (please see Lame Adventure 65: Pride Baby!), is a person of indeterminate gender that was standing next to us when we watched the Gay Pride parade in lower Manhattan two weeks ago.  I thought she was a woman, Milton thought she was a man, or possibly someone pre-op.  We were both indifferent about that – hey, to each his or her own – but our issue with Blow Tart was the ear splitting piercing whistle that she blew for so long and so loud, even marchers in the parade were shouting at her to knock it off.  An exhausted drag queen with painfully blistered feet told her he could hear her from three blocks away, adding, “Where do you get the energy?  Helen Keller can hear you!”

This wilted rose surely looked a lot fresher four hours earlier that day.

Back to Sunday night:

Me:  Was she still wearing the whistle?

Milton:  I could recognize her even without the whistle.

Me:  Are you absolutely, positively, 100% sure it was Blow Tart?  [hopeful] Maybe you were mistaken.

Milton:  She was with that same odd fellow friend.  They looked at me funny.  If they saw me with you, they’d recognize us.  If they knew about your blog …

Milton’s voice trails off.

Me:  What?  We’d both be entering the Witness Protection Program about now?  Please!  She loves attention.  She’d probably kiss us both on the lips.

Milton emits a groan reminiscent of a constipated buffalo.

Milton:  Now I dread I’m going to see her every time I buy spaghetti sauce.  Don’t you get it?  She lives in my neighborhood!  My neighborhood!

Me:  What was she wearing?

Milton:  I don’t know!  I ran!  I lost myself in the Dairy Department!

On that note, we ended the conversation; Milton polished off the last of his Maker’s Mark, and then passed out with audio of Blow Tart blowing that whistle right into our ears again.

Torture by whistle -- water boarding's great-grandmother.

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