As Steve went on about how he lost his favorite shoe at the park this morning and how life would never be the same, Phil realized he’d rather be plagued with the Curse of the Juggler (the ancient curse by which a miniature clown eternally juggles one’s balls inside the nutsac) than listen to one more second of Steve’s histrionics.
‘Enough with the histrionics!!!’ Phil thought to himself as he outwardly smiled and nodded at Steve. Phil wished a plague of locusts upon his well-meaning but overly dramatic roommate who ruined Phil’s breakfast by going on and on about how the crotch in his new suit had been shredded to bits by his massive balls.
As much as I enjoy the histrionics that the streets of New York City has to offer, I’ve begun to feel that the street performers doing magic are starting to plague me…what happened to the days of Irish step dancing and just being swindled!?