Crazy Bum Stories
Got any? Post your comments...
Here's mine:
Geneva, 1899.
Now fast forward 100 years. A gray, snowy day and I was walking along the main shopping street, checking things out. I'd just come out from the theater watching a French-dubbed Runaway Bride without English subtitle, dazed and confused. In front of me staggered a white-haired man, short and lean, in a dirty white suit. The man looked pale, except for his flushed face, so I gathered he must have had a swig or two, probably whiskey, perhaps gin.
As I approached the man, he suddenly straightened and extended his arms sideways, forming a cross with his taut body. And he started to march like a Nazi soldier, and uttered -- no, yelled -- in German. "Snickettyspitzoid nutcracker!" "Gruffmeister Ackbad Guggenheim!" I continued my stroll at a safe distance behind him, studying, observing, having crazy thoughts of my own about this creature.
Then a woman and her young son walked by. The man stared at the boy for a second, then twisted his outstretched arms toward the boy and went, "Grrrr, Grrr, Grrrr." The woman promptly yanked the boy close to her and quickened her pace. Should've seen the boy's face. The popped-out eyes, the ice-sheet face, the upside-down frown that dropped to his chest.
Priceless.
I started laughing. The man never looked at me. I didn't even think he knew I existed. But it was one of the best things that happened to me in Geneva. That and the half-boiled duck.
Here's mine:
Geneva, 1899.
Now fast forward 100 years. A gray, snowy day and I was walking along the main shopping street, checking things out. I'd just come out from the theater watching a French-dubbed Runaway Bride without English subtitle, dazed and confused. In front of me staggered a white-haired man, short and lean, in a dirty white suit. The man looked pale, except for his flushed face, so I gathered he must have had a swig or two, probably whiskey, perhaps gin.
As I approached the man, he suddenly straightened and extended his arms sideways, forming a cross with his taut body. And he started to march like a Nazi soldier, and uttered -- no, yelled -- in German. "Snickettyspitzoid nutcracker!" "Gruffmeister Ackbad Guggenheim!" I continued my stroll at a safe distance behind him, studying, observing, having crazy thoughts of my own about this creature.
Then a woman and her young son walked by. The man stared at the boy for a second, then twisted his outstretched arms toward the boy and went, "Grrrr, Grrr, Grrrr." The woman promptly yanked the boy close to her and quickened her pace. Should've seen the boy's face. The popped-out eyes, the ice-sheet face, the upside-down frown that dropped to his chest.
Priceless.
I started laughing. The man never looked at me. I didn't even think he knew I existed. But it was one of the best things that happened to me in Geneva. That and the half-boiled duck.
Comments
That's it. I'm leaving. False advertiser.
Tell me about your crazy bum!