Why I hurt more than you do

This is Pierre's third guest post on my blog.

Day 3 in the big apple.

The day began at MOMA. To you uncultured sots out there, MOMA is not some ethnic designation for grandmother, it's a hideously expensive modern art museum. Now modern art scares many people, and it should. If you say you don't understand it, then you're a cretin. If you say that you get it, really really do get it, then you're a simpering snob. I can confirm that the place is crawling with both of these forms of creature. With a spattering of earnest art students yammering at bemused kindergarten children about how the entirely blank canvas on the wall is meaningful. I knew I'd died and gone to hell when I saw the performing artist draped in white on a chair in a huge hall...just sitting there. I grabbed Donna and said 'We gotta go baby before that thing in my head awakes and looks for food.' Donna hates it when I talk like that so she agreed to leave. We walked to Central Park but I was getting tired of walking and Donna was getting tired of me so we took a cab to the Museum Of Natural History with the intention of seeing some goddamn dinosaurs. We spent a couple hours looking at a succession of exhaustingly fascinating natural stuff when I glanced at the museum floor plan and realized to my horror that we had been wandering in a circle and had been looking at the same exhibits over and over again. And it was a little circle that represented maybe 5% of the museum floor area. I mean, a rock is a rock is a rock, right? Well, needless to say, I did not share this information with Donna but instead suggested that we hit the Gift Shop, which is the only reason to go to a museum anyway.

So to make a short story long, I'll tell you about our evening on Broadway. We saw 'Chicago', which Donna had assured me was about Al Capone and the mafia but instead was about singing people in various stages of undress. Lots of them. Sitting in front of us was a hydro-cephalic with what looked to be a a painfully painfully large head, and behind us sat two couples simpering in that annoying french dialect found exclusively in the St. Laurence valley. Tabernac.