This is an actual transcript of a conversation I overheard at around 6pm yesterday at a drug store on 3rd avenue and 41st street.
I call this poem:
What the woman behind me at Duane Reade said while talking on her cell phone.
If they want to
Blow that fuckin' shit up,
I don't care.
I told them,
"I am not gettin' a fuckin' asthma or a panic attack."
right after work.
till September 7th.
coming into Manhattan.
to the Bronx.
(Spanish word, Spanish word, Spanish word)
They can fire my ass.
PS See below for info on the Red Cross Benefit I'm performing in tonight and my other upcoming shows.