In the summer of 2008, I was accosted by a ranting and raving woman at the corner at Broad and Cecil B. She was arrayed in the following items:
*plastic bag as do-rag
*animal print swimsuit, sorely lacking a much-needed shelf bra
*men's red mesh basketball shorts, worn at the high waist
*bedroom slippers
*another plastic bag carrying various other belongings
From her guttural tirade, I was able
to discern that the woman was knowledgeable about many far-reaching topics, such as SSI checks and the STD and STI rate in Philadelphia, among others. Most of her speech was difficult to make out, but one resounding refrain could be heard repeatedly: YURRRRRRRRRRRRP. It could be heard by all exiting the Qdoba; it could be heard by those poor unwitting souls on their way into Bank of America to cash their paycheck; it could be heard far after her lurching figure had already rounded over the horizon, echoing off the surrounding buildings like a vulture's cry in the desert. Since then, I have found that her memory has been hard to shake; even now, I find myself uttering her catchphrase as my affirmative of choice. Sound your barbaric yuuurrrp over the roofs of the world.
