Last Sunday I rooked my husband into accompanying me as I went on another (albeit smallish) fact-finding mission*. Our route was as follows.
West Street has never failed to deliver (large quantities of dog shit) before and this occasion proved to be no different. Here are a few of my favorite shits.
65 Green Street
SHIT Tac Toe! I won! I won!
79 Green Street
This is just plain scary. And last but not least, my personal favorite from…
150 West Street!
It was a very fruitful trip— and the dog shit I found was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg, if you know what I mean.
When I reached Kent Street I noticed yet another group of older buildings that seemed to be awaiting a date with the wrecking ball. I went in for a closer look. And when I did, I found this. I walked another 5-6 feet and found these.
It would appear that had stumbled upon a trail, a Skidmark Row if you will, of grannie panties that spanned 59 Kent Street. Fascinating.
So if any of you:
- woke up last Sunday morning (after several rousing trysts at Mary D’s the night before) and found yourself wondering “Gee, where’s my underwear?”
- have fantasies involving Estelle Getty, The Golden Girls, getting golden showers from golden girls— or all of the above
- find the “I’ve fallen and can’t get up” lady strangely arousing
- have a thing for underwear resembling Depends undergarments
today’s your lucky day! Go on down to Kent Street (I have indicated the location on the above map with a red dot) and dig in. And when you’re done, why not swing by Brooklyn Bridge Marriott tomorrow afternoon for this?
*After what transpired earlier that day, I felt my husband owed it to me.
I woke up on Sunday about 30 minutes after my husband. I got out of bed, put on my pajama bottoms (which were exactly where I had left them the night before: at the foot of the bed) and wandered into the kitchen. After I had managed to plow through two cups of coffee, my husband charged into the living room babbling “You aren’t wearing the striped pants, are you?”
“Striped pants?” I thought to myself.
Husband: Yeah, the ones you are wearing. I found those wadded up in the cat box this morning.
I must had worn these soiled ‘striped pants’ for at least 20 minutes before my husband saw fit to notice and/or tell me. I am still trying to figure out why the hell he didn’t simply put them in the dirty laundry hamper instead of putting them back on the floor. Gross.