On Farting Around
I use a typewriter, and afterwards I mark up the pages with a pencil. Then I call up this woman named Carol out in Woodstock and say, "Are you still doing typing?" Sure she is, and her husband is trying to track bluebirds out there and not having much luck, and so we chitchat back and forth, and I say, "OK, I'll send you the pages."
...So I go down the steps
here, and I go out to this newsstand across the street
where they sell magazines and lottery tickets and stationery.
I have to get in line because there are people buying
candy and all that sort of thing, and I talk to them.
The woman behind the counter has a jewel between her
eyes, and when it's my turn, I ask her if there have
been any big winners lately. I get my envelope and seal
it up and go to the postal convenience center down the
block at the corner of 47th Street and 2nd Avenue, where
I'm secretly in love with the woman behind the counter.
I keep absolutely poker-faced; I never let her know
how I feel about her. One time I had my pocket picked
in there and got to meet a cop and tell him about it.
Anyway, I address the envelope to Carol in Woodstock.
I stamp the envelope and mail it in a mailbox in front
of the post office, and I go home. And I've had a hell
of a good time.
And I tell you, we are here on Earth to fart around, and don't let anybody tell you any different.
