I intend to declare war on Alexander St.!

At 2:20 am one might reasonably expect me to be asleep. After all, I've been tired all day, hopped up on anti-histamines. But am I asleep? Oh, no. I'm sitting here waiting for the throng of militant bar-goers across the street to fuck off. Again, I'd like a fire-hose. Or perhaps several crates of TNT. Or even some enriched uranium. It's madness, all that screaming and yelling, and honking of horns and screeching of tires. Why can't a platoon of riot police be called in to forcibly disperse this mob of cretins? They're all a bunch of steak-heads anyways, what harm could possibly come in mowing them down with highly-pressurized water?

I expected this intolerable non-sense to slacken with the on-set of the cooler season, but it appears I was wrong. Apparently these licentious, ribald hell-hounds fear not the frosty bite of Old Man Winter, in his first frigid grasps of the season. Well, if cold doesn't dis-suade them, then explosives will have to. Next week-end Alexander St. shall be as teeming with land-mines, booby-traps and other incendiary torpedoes as fleas and lice are on a vagrant pan-handler!

Bah!!