THe FReCKLeD FINGeR

I hate people.

I rearrange my whole day just to avoid having to come in contact with people.  I take off peak subway and train rides, I go jogging at 3am, I do a home invasion of my priest in the middle of the night to get my weekly blessing/communion.

Today, I figured I'd go see a flick.  The duo of Scorcese/DiCaprio has proven in the past to make me, a grown man, wet, so I wanted to see their latest, Shutter Island.

I thought that if I had gone to an 11am showing, I would have the best opportunity to see a movie with the least amount of people around me.  Boy, did Jesus Christ shit in my popcorn.  It was one of the more crowded movie experiences I've had since, well ever.  Due to my dislike of humanity, I tend to indulge in one of the oldest Chinese traditions, bootlegged DVDs.

Anyway, the movie was over and I thought I'd escaped without interacting with anyone, but this jerkoff in front of me, without provocation, turns his giant effing head 180 and says:

"So was he crazy or not?"

I for sure was not going to part take in his post-film, credits rolling bantering bullshit... but I did, however, want to give him a satisfactory answer so he did not lose any sleep this evening fighting with the possibility of whether or not 'he' was crazy.

So, I gracefully undid my belt, unbuckled my pants, grabbed both my jeans and my briefs and thrust my pants down to the floor exposing my semi-erect penis (Scorcese/DiCaprio, remember?) and spit in the man's face.

He'll, at least, know I was crazy.