Catfish McDaris

New York City Digestion Blues

After eating spaghetti and sausage in Little Italy, on the edge of Chinatown, my lady
wanted to shop. I waited outside while she looked at Buddha’s for her collection. I
watched the Bowery scene, the old brick architecture and the languages garbled
together like chicken bones clogging up a garbage disposal. In a shop window I saw
squirming eels, green yellow frogs, and sardines in soy sauce, next to a television
displaying someone getting a foot massage and acupuncture. My toes started feeling
like caterpillars frying in olive oil. A huge fat Italian moke with a turd looking cigar stuck
in his pie hole hogged up the sidewalk with his big bushy tailed red assholed dog. He
trudged and stomped like he was King motherfucking Kong, looking for a challenge.
A lithe little Chinaman, Bruce Lee type with a tiny brown nondescript dog tried to avoid
any action, to no avail. The fight was on. The chink dog grabbed the wop dog by the
nuts and did some dog Kung Fu. It was thing of beauty, blood and fur flying high. I
saw lots of gleaming meat cleavers and long knives coming out. I called my woman
and said, let’s scram. She asked, what have you done now. I just laughed.



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