Past Imperfect – #219

SR 1219

Old Absinthe Sign: “I am so tired of all these tourists.”

Bienville Street Sign: “Seriously? You’ve been here over two hundred years and you haven’t learned how to deal with it yet?”

Absinthe: “You don’t understand. All these grimy rednecks come staggering in here, thinking they can find something to guzzle that will make them have visions like Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge.”

Street: “No, those aren’t rednecks. Those are the gays with disposable income. Rednecks would never watch a movie with a French title, it’s not what Jesus would do. They don’t know Moulin Rouge from a septic tank.”

Absinthe: “Well, that explains why they scream when their chiffon jockstraps get damp from the humidity. Why are people surprised that it’s humid here? Do they not have any concept of geography? Still, you don’t understand my pain. You’re what? Seventy years old? That’s nothing in this town.”

Street: “Are you pulling the age card on me? My family has been here for centuries. My grand-daddy pointed the way to the Red Light District and my daddy helped morphine-addicts find Marie Laveau’s grave. We have history, bitch.”

Absinthe: “You also have titty-beads hanging from your face. Do you really want to keep comparing notes?”

Tourist, drunk and babbling: “Does anybody know where I can find Gene The Feets? It’s at the corner of Beanville and BonBon streets? Is that where I’m at? I want some Abbie Sin!”

Street: “Okay, you might have a point. The tourists can be a bit much.”

Absinthe: “Just shoot me in the head.”


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