Flip Frost Loves New York


His awakening thought: The roaches were probably still sleeping. They only come out at night.

He looked in the cracked dresser mirror and yawned. Gazing down at his 1960‘s analog clock radio (the only artifact from his childhood he still owned), it non digitally registered 5:45. He figured it must be afternoon.

After all, his foggy alcohol drenched brain is slowly recalling stumbling out of CBGB’s to the blinding morning sun. He also remembers breakfast at Leshko’s on Avenue A. Ordering pancakes with his new friend Johan from Germany and those chicks from that fetid excuse for a punk rock band, “The Sanitary Napkin.” A Typical New Jersey art school chick wanna be band.

“Imagine that chick, “Rayon” refusing to give me a hand job under the table! Fuck her,” he indigently said out loud. “Obviously she does not know who I am.” His dry mouth now feeling and tasting like he drank a glass of Tang after some astronaut pissed in it.

Luckily, the single bathroom on the fifth floor of the converted loft to skell SRO (Single Room Occupancy) hotel he occupied was empty. He drained the dragon and cut some rather smelly and wickedly wet farts. A solitary minuscule turd followed.

Plop!!! The cold piss laced toilet water shot up his matted hairy dried shit balled(commonly known as dinkelberrys) ass.





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