Bong rips for Judy
We’re on the couch doing bong rips.
“Is ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ too sad to play?” I ask him, leaning far over again to light the bowl.
He thinks for a minute. “No.”
“Good. I really love that song. I don’t know.” I feel ashamed. “It doesn’t hurt that Tori Amos covered it.”
He nods, or mm-hms, more closely reading the instruction manual of our new microwave.
“I don’t even real know if that’s my favorite cover version,” blowing out a pure white cloud of smoke and beginning to cough.
“It’s from this old Judy Garland movie,” I sputter through the end of my cough. “Most of the cover versions aren’t half as sad as the original.” We’ll have to muddle through somehow, I think. That’s the line Ol’ Blue Eyes couldn’t handle.
I lean over and fire the bong again. “This one’s for you, Judy,” I say, hacking through the silky white haze.
Bong rips for Judy, I think. That’ll be the name of my next story.
