AnarchoSlacker

So yeah, last weekend I was at the Discount Irregular Organic Foodatorium and Pasta Dispensary here in Brooklyn, and I met a Sri Lankan ex-newsreader now prostitute.  She was bent over a bunch of cans of coconut milk and I thought to myself, “check out the shitter on that critter.”  I followed her on an odessy of lentils, chickpeas, and saffron until she darted toward the checkout counter.  I found her odors of nutmeg, marjoram, and astroglide to be intriguing, so I broke the ice by offering to help her carry her groceries.  She shrieked and sprayed me in the eyes with mace.  After I fell over and started crying, she realized that I’m a sensitive guy, so she helped me up and washed my eyes with unsweetened yogurt.  We sped off into the night on the B71 bus, her hand in mine, and my hand on her glorious left boob.  On the bus she told me about the tea plantations of Ceylon and the bus terminals of Newark.  She’s so cool, because she traveled the world ‘n shit.  I put my head between her breasts and she told me that she needed help.  If she didn’t sell enough issues of Vibe magazine, her pimp would send her and her family back to Bakersfield, CA where she would languish beneath the orange trees and In and Out Burger franchises.  I vowed to help her make it in New York, just like I did… by putting coffee to cup.  That night we made love passionately… or at least I think we did.  The plastic bag she stretched over my head made me pass out.  In the morning, I awoke to find that she had stolen my wallet and defecated in the corner of my room, and not in the potty bucket, like I asked her to.  I just don’t get it.  Every time I invite a Southeast Asian prostitute back to my squat, something bad happens.  Granted, it wasn’t as bad as the time one of them bit me and tried to set fire to me while I was sleeping, but what gives?  Well, I have to get off to work.  It’s hard to do what I do, because I’m an expert barista.  Only I know the right combination of bleached flower and sweet and low to put into the lattes.  Oh, and by the way, they’re letting me use the microwave again after I scavenged a new talking feather to replace the one I might have tried to smoke after licking a cane toad.

Peace!