Stairwell Aficionado
Welcome to 2018, my Stairwellingtons. That's what my fans call themselves. Don'tcha? To start off the new year right I walked down to Olympia's Port Plaza to see if I couldn't get a splinter from the Viewing Tower. The last time I was walking in this area was during the summer when a group of cultists, whose deity is said to have perished and then was reanimated and whose blood is drank by his worshippers, were dunking a young boy in the water of the Bud Inlet. My girlfriend and I hurried away, clasping our coin purses and fearing for our sanity.
Today was a cold one; my Go-Go-Gadget Pinky Thermometer told me it was 36 degrees: the temperature of Dick Cheney's heart BEFORE he was given a metal, robotic blood-pumper. On the way to the stairwell I passed by two different ladies whose dogs were in the process of defecating. My jealousy ran high; the last time I crapped in public I was the victim of a saran-wrapped toilet bowl prank. Never again. Never. Again.
The Viewing Tower is so cool. The wooden treehouse-like structure filled me with childhood emotions. The Olympic mountains stood gigantic in the distance--on the other side of them lay my hometown where I made my living as the jester for the king of the forest--a retired, chain-smoking circus bear named Bobo. But that's a story for another time.
My final task lay ahead of me: I had to lick this heavily-trafficked stairwell. And it was exactly how I thought it would be--more gritty than Eric Trump's agape mouth in a sandbox. I give this near-masterpiece 4 splinters out of 5.
