Monday, March 27, 2017

912: Snake-eater.

Puff.

"You are number two. Don't make eye contact while you do your business. That only angers me."

"Being second of only two, you are therefore both the runner-up and the worst."

The downpour. Fat Mike's Drive-Up. The smell of sizzling taco meat.

"Constant motion.  That's better."

Forgot the catsup packs.  Only use the fancy, b*tch.  With the picture of the bottle on the side of the package.

Back into Fat Mike's for the catsup.  They say I have to buy something to get the catsup.  I'm getting angry.  I think of complaining to the BBB.

"Sitting in the sunlight is giving me a headache.  Get your horrid self off of the gear shift so I can move the car."

"I'll tell you what I need: I need my aviator glasses, with the solar dampening near the top of the lenses."

(Fat Mike pees in the Men's room without shutting the door first.  Everyone on Beechtree Drive can see him from the back and his awkward posture while he relieves himself.  It looks, from the back, like he is trying to gently coax a baby bird down the urinal drain.)

Smoke wafting.

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