Last night I got buzzed at a tapas bar drinking Rioja with a couple of my sophisticated friends, Jarvis and Buffy.

Later we hit up a one woman show in the trendy downtown district. The show was called “Empowerment: One Woman’s Journey from Wife-hood to Single-hood and Finally to Lonesome, Bitter Death”.

It was a hoot, but I got headache from all the whining.

Afterward, we retreated to a loft and listened to some jazz, which compounded my headache because, frankly, jazz fucking sucks.

After an hour or so of snorting at the stupid, stupid people who disagreed with our enlightened, globalist perspective, I managed to escape. In the alley behind the building, next to a dumpster, I ran across a drunk homeless dude sucking on a 40.

“Sir,” he said, “you wouldn’t happen to have any spare change, would you?”

“I’m not a sir,” I told him. “I work for a living.”

“Sergeant, then?”

“Ok.”

“Got any spare change, Sergeant?”

“I’ll give you a ten dollar bill for the rest of that 40.”

“Deal.”

The transaction was conducted and he shambled off, holding up his pants with one hand. I took up his post next to the dumpster and worked on the 40. I looked up in the sky to see the stars, but couldn’t make any out. I was dizzy from the Rioja and now the beer, you see.

The stars, they don’t matter anyway. Not in this Universe.