Post Stone Improvisation at Three Eastern

“Why don’t you tell me your name?” he whispered suspiciously. But the girl was in no mood for trouble and pushed him onto his bum. Outside she found the streets to be immaculately clean and an Eskimo was licking the side of a garbage can. The girl approached him and enquired, “Are you the philanthropist who has cleaned our streets?” He replied in his native tongue, which meant nothing to the girl. So she frustratingly pushed him down and continued to search for a connection, then she came to a toad eating pork rinds by the Hudson River. The young girl knelt down next to the toad and gave it a suggestive wink. The toad jumped in the girl’s skirt and tried to find a moist cave to hide from his wife in. Again there was no impressing the girl and she squeezed out the animal, along with some vaginal tissue, for she was menstruating. “What a relief she screamed!” she screamed to the clouds. From below the soil of a tree implant on an asphalt sidewalk emerged a dead poet from France, who offered the girl a bottle of wine. There appeared to be no apparent schemes behind the dead French poet; but the dead, the French and poets tend to have deceptive appearances. A club came down upon the girl’s dome. It was not the poet. It was not the toad. It was not the Eskimo. It was not the lecher. It was the girl’s parent, an amoral creature who needed no partner to reproduce. After the parent slurped the last piece of meat from the bones, it threw them into a pot for a stew. The girl entered the kitchen and put her arm around her parent, laughing. “What’s so funny?” asked the parent. “I was just thinking about how acceptable this would be in the Vatican, considering the man was already dead.” The parent frowned, chopped off its daughter’s hair and told her, “Yes, you are correct. The entire situation is very funny.”