View Full Version : Another TL;DR, By Request: Jasmine

Vieux Normand
26th January 10, 03:26 PM
0400 hours Sunday morning and the last patron is out of the club (dragged out of the washroom where he'd been trying to scrub the skid-marks from the front of his once-white pants...some girls just shouldn't booty-grind their dates, full stop). Having handed in my radio, completed all incident-reports and punched out, your humble servant heads homeward.

Sometimes, to get a bit of silent-time before getting home, I'll grab a veggie-dog from the nearest streetmeat stand and stop to relish it at a nearby dog-park. One corner of this minute square of greenery features a bench tucked between two spruce bushes under a streetlight that--far from illuminating it--throws it into dark relief, making anyone seated there all but invisible to passerby. No matter: most times, there are no passerby. It being winter, the homeless have all gone to sleep on heating-grates, so I have the throne-of-solitude to myself.

This night, however, some players on life's stage present themselves. One is an older gentleman with an enormous pure-white Akita dog, which proceeds to deposit an equally-pure (and equally-enormous) brown mound of steaming wet fragrance by one of the park's several trees. The owner peers at his watch, looks around, and decides to forego any legislated cleanup. Leaving their souvenir, the two exit.

I'm enjoying my veggie-dog (anything is a feast after a long shift, especially when piled high with olives and fried onions), when a group of young 'uns appears, heading out of the club district. Two girls and three males are in the lead while a lone male (looking like a cross between John Lydon and Will Wheaton) follows some distance behind.

"Jasmine!", he calls forlornly. "C'mon!"

"What the fuck is your problem?", answers one of the group. "She doesn't want to talk to you! Stop following us, for fucksakes!"

"I know," says another. "Maybe he's hungry." The male who suggested this suddenly reverses course and makes a beeline for the follower. The latter, eyes presumably set on Jasmine, doesn't notice this until the pizza-crust collides with his face, causing him to plop down in situ on his rear.

"Might be thirsty too," adds one of the group's females. While Wesley Rotten is trying to get up, she runs back and rains a liberal dose of cola on his face, hair, and shirt. Inhaling some of this unexpected libation, he sits back down and starts coughing uncontrollably.

"Jeezus, he smells", says the other female. "Here, you wanted a little lovin' from Jasmine? Let me clean you up." She clutches a small glass bottle--presmably some kind of eau de toilette--and sprays it into his face. Given the product's alcohol content, it's no surprise that her would-be devotee covers one of his eyes and starts shrieking. Now they're all standing around looking down at him. My hot-dog is half-gone. Quiet-time would have been nice, but the meal still hits the spot.

One of the males comments: "Shit, wouldja listen to that screaming? Why doesn't he shut the fuck up?"

"Maybe he's feeling too clean" responds Jasmine, pointing at something she's just noticed--the recent leavings of the park's canine visitor. They all grab their erstwhile friend, drag him over to the pile, and proceed with a thorough facial baptism. The object of their attentions starts kicking and Jasmine--no lightweight--clouts him on the head. He lies there while they flag down a cab.

Alone, follow-boy finally stirs and, sitting up, takes stock of his circumstances. Pawing his scat-caked countenance, he begins to half-snarl-half-sob:


This followed by a series of long gasping inhalations accompanied by volumes of promised vengeance in strung-together words:









This attracts the attention of another group coming down the adjacent street. They stop and peer at this apparition, sitting in the middle of a dog-park at 4 AM, hands held up in mock-supplication, shouting whatever.

"What the fuck is that guy's issue?", queries one of them. Hearing their laughter, dog-boy snarls something incoherent, jumps up and sprints in their direction. Whether rage, inebriation or darkness, our vengeful warrior fails to notice the chest-high, black-painted wrought-iron fence that separates him from his intended quarry--until he bounces off of it and lands on his back. After a fresh burst of mirth, the group continue on their way.

In a fresh burst of energy, our tireless hero then begins a new activity: somewhat resembling a freshly-shot Blade Runner replicant, he throws his limbs out in all directions and screams skyward in piercing falsetto. Five or so minutes of this little breakdance accomplished, he curls up, foetuslike on one side and remains on the grass, his only signs of life being the steam escaping from his mouth and nose and a curious "Heeuuurk, heeuuurk" sound.

Damn, that was a good hot-dog. Standing and brushing off crumbs, I exit the park and make my way home. There, my wife decides to get up and we watch a special on Japan's beautiful mountains--sound off--while listening to a Dvorak string quartet on the stereo.

The tea we share? Jasmine, of course.

26th January 10, 03:42 PM

26th January 10, 03:43 PM
What an eloquent account of that amusing tale! Thank you!

26th January 10, 04:07 PM
Now that guy could probably use some of those muscles you wrote about in your other thread.

Both very entertaining reads, btw.

26th January 10, 04:11 PM
Man, Vieux. I love your high-minded tales of Low-life.

Please keep 'em coming for the benefit of those of us that don't deal with fresh vomit on a regular basis.


Lights Out
26th January 10, 05:09 PM
Aw, poor dude.

26th January 10, 05:52 PM
Not really. Either he deserved it because he was a total douchebag, or he deserved it for his lousy taste in women.

Lights Out
26th January 10, 05:54 PM
The way I see it, good people don't do such nasty things.

Maybe he wasn't the good guy, but sure as hell the others weren't either.

26th January 10, 06:06 PM
And yet he wanted Jasmine anyways. Error in judgement.

27th January 10, 12:36 AM
Delightful. The only thing I'm missing is what they looked like.

Damn, that was a good hot-dog.
This line sold it. Must spread rep.

27th January 10, 01:05 AM
lol, i have no respect for poor, sad pieces of shit like this, but i do feel sorry for them. in everyday life he could be quite normal. but that's what you get for going out and getting wasted, especially on your own.

27th January 10, 01:20 AM

I sure wish Jasmine would smear dog poo all over my face!

Well, time to go do some masturbating!

billy sol hurok
27th January 10, 08:20 AM
Nice cross between Pynchon (I'm thinking Pig Bodine, here) and Mike Leigh:


You must spread some Reputation around before giving it to Vieux Normand again.


Vieux Normand
27th January 10, 10:34 AM
The only thing I'm missing is what they looked like.

You're quite right. When one has been working in the industry long enough, young 'uns coming out of the club district tend to look pretty much the same so we don't bother with redundancies such as descriptions of them.

For those fortunate enough to avoid clubs, allow me: while each district (and, to some degree, each club) has its own, um, norms when it comes to apparel, long term trends can appear.

Come any time after nine, the entertainment district becomes replete with faux-hawk-coiffed suburbanites with shirt-tails hanging out over nondescript trousers atop shined duckbills. That's the most common type, but there's a liberal mixing-in of sweaty monobrowed (or wax-browed) guidos in sperm-splattered-looking "fight-shirts" and over-jelled hair, as well as little fat giggling Mediterranean cannonballs who don porkpies or fedoras to try and look 20's-gangster or something (or, more likely, to try and give themselves some height). Of course, examples from the "pants-on-the-ground song" also show up, wannabee gangstas and wiggered-out whites.

The skankstresses tend to be more uniform these days: there are still the painted-on jeans, but more frequently one sees a lot of black tube-like things which have neither backs, nor anything above the nipple-level, nor anything below the very tops of the legs. These are the ones who, getting drunk enough, routinely leave stains all over anything that can be sat upon (one supposes the washrooms are too far away for convenience).

They're also the ones whose booty-grinding can leave shit-streaks on their dates' zippers or shirt-fronts. When we started to see this, er, territorial marking, those of us working were somewhat perplexed. With enough observation, however, the Riddle of the Sphincter was solved: the classy ladies in question either wear nothing at all under their tubes, or there's a thong so insubstantial that it takes very little sideways grinding to shove it out of the way of some prolonged starfish-and-labia-to-boyfriend's-clothes contact. The two ways this is facilitated involve either a very flexible lower back or (more commonly) the adoption of a hands-to-the-floor-but-legs-straight-up position during the grind.

Aren't you glad I shared this with you?

27th January 10, 12:41 PM
Yes, thank you. The new marking system for human mating rituals is fascinating.

Vieux Normand
27th January 10, 05:22 PM
Yes, thank you. The new marking system for human mating rituals is fascinating.

Think it's new?

Go to the zoo and watch the chimps.

Same shit, different ape.

27th January 10, 05:22 PM

see that? we're basically a sub-species of chimp.

further evidence can be found in post #14 of this thread.

Vieux Normand
27th January 10, 05:30 PM
Nice chart, Danno.

The only thing one might add is a branch that goes from right to left and then comes to a dead end: the club-goers.