RECRUDESCENCE

n. the state of becoming raw or sore again

“George Washington’s thoughts about his time in Sing Sing prison for robbing a WAMU (ironic) caused a recrudescence of feeling that was difficult to suppress.”

George Washington is back in Williamsburg in his Bedford Avenue loft. There is an open bottle of chardonnay and a wine glass on the coffee table. He is using the long weekend to catch up on episodes of Lost that he missed while he was “away.” His Blackberry Pearl rings. Its Abraham Lincoln:

Washington: Yo, sup. Lincoln: Sup, man? W: I thought you went skiin’ this weekend? L: Nah. Gotta go to my mother in law's house. W: For what? L: My birthday. W: Lame. Yo, did you see my slave anywhere? L: I let him go, dude. W: Haha, funny. No, seriously, where is he? L: I let him go. I gave him my Metro Card and told him to find a job. W: In this city? He can’t even read. Where’s he gonna work, Foot Locker? What the F*CK!? I needed him to pick up my dry cleaning. L: It wasn’t right. Oh also, I took back those library books you stole. W: Dude you’re such a pu$sy! No balls. L: Your mom’s a pus$y. W: Take that back. My mom could kick your ass. L: Your mom couldn’t kick Ben Franklin’s ass. W: You leave my BF out of this. L: “My BF”? What the hell does that mean? You guys must have gotten real close on Rikers, huh? W: It was an awkward turn of phrase, and it wasn’t Rikers, it was Sing Sing. I am not gay for Ben Franklin. L: Yeah whatever, dude. Yo, can you spot me half a G? I have to pay my bookie. F*cking Patriots. W: F*ck that, go borrow 500 from my slave. Oh wait, you can’t, because he’s somewhere on the aboveground railroad taking valuable man-hours with him that could have been put to good use arranging my wigs and answering my thousands of friend requests on myspace, you douche! L: Come on, just spot me, please. Don’t make me tell Martha what you did at Sing Sing to get your wooden teeth back. W: Who the f*ck told you about that?! L: Your BF. W: That BITCH! I told that phildoodle not to say anything! I gave him ten cans of snuff to keep his pretty mouth shut, and this is how he does me? You know how many times I saved him from being raped by skinheads in the joint? Those guys were ready to tear his bifocal wearing ass up! All that kite flying $hit on the yard. I’ll kill that motherf*cker! L: Relax. Come on, let’s go get massages down on Mott St. I heard Ling is back. I know how you like that absurdly long toe of hers on your prostate! W: F*cking Franklin told you ALL my secrets, didn’t he! I’m gonna get that f*cker. (grabs his axe) L: Seriously, calm down. I’m not gonna tell anyone else. W: Who the f*ck did you tell? L: Just Jesus. He’s not gonna tell anybody. He’s too high to remember half the $hit I tell him most of the time. W: Christ, what a stoner. Does he still make you say grace when you eat at his house? F*cking weirdo. L: Nah, he’s into some eastern $hit these days, like incense and nine hour masses. I think he does so much praying on Sundays that he can’t be bothered with grace. W: Poor guy. He was never the same after he made his own foreskin grow back. That really messed him up. So what time are we meeting on Mott St.? L: Six okay? W: Yeah, fine. That will give me time to pick up some new nonsweatshop produced briefs in a variety of colors from American Apparel. You know I don’t like walking out of Pretty Lotus Intimate Time Fun Palace without a new pair of skivvies on. L: Yeah Martha can smell those sloots all over you. She’s like a goddamn she-wolf. Hey, it’s better than her smelling Franklin’s peanut butter, capers and Brut, ain’t it? W: If you mention him one more time, I’m going to bludgeon you with the business end of my axe, bitch. L: Alright. I'll take your word for it. I know you don't lie when it comes to hacking $hit up. All I have to do is ask that Columbia student whose pinky toe they think they found in Morningside Park. Six at Pretty Lotus Intimate Time Fun Palace, k? W: Yeah, later.