My cab driver last night smelled like a bong filled with chicken fingers, and, without provocation, he spun me a 10-minute tale about how his old dispatcher (who was a total crook that stole cocaine from everyone) recently died when he fell through a glass coffee table, and the broken shard stabbed all the way through the man’s torso, slicing open his “bad liver.”
I felt like the wedding guest who had to listen to the old guy talking about the albatross. Except my dude was totally high and demonstrated that his story would have maximum impact if he turned to face me most of the time he was telling it.
Did I mention he fish-tailed three times?
