So my Romanian friend left his dog and his sister under the bridge and made his way to Italy to work on a tobacco farm. Saturday nights won't be the same. No more standing in the rain drinking cans of cheap beer while Chinese people try to shoo us away from their door. He'll make more money cutting tobacco than parking cars, but not much. I said, Why are you going all the way over there for so little money? And he said, I'm living under a fucking bridge.
I have work to do. But I'm not doing it. Instead I'm telling you I have a couple of new stories out. They're funny. I don't understand it, but they made me laugh. I wrote them, of course, but I hadn't read them in a while. I laughed and thought, You are a genius! And then I thought, You are a fucking asshole. A skunk. Imagine thinking of yourself in such terms. It's ridiculous.
Sometimes people tell me my stories are funny. The strange thing is that I am the least funny person in the world. One time someone even told me I was the opposite of funny. I wanted to punch him in the face. That's probably why I became a writer.
Hands is at Pif and Children is at Corium. Both are new venues for me, and I'm happy to be there. And, as usual, in good company. Check them out. Then you can come back here and tell me my stories are shit and not funny at all.
p.s. It's the day Flann O'Brien died. Pick him up and read him. You both deserve it.
Venues is an awful word.
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