Thursday, March 3, 2011

Morning Production, idle thoughts

... pushing through the rumbling streets, the matadors & master races ...

She hums Chinese work songs; off key, soft but too loud to ignore. The Colombian used to sing too. In Spanish, whatever came to mind. Corridos, boleros - unless Xtina or Shakira came on the store radio (& he'd sing along).

Half a tank of blood for oil: I have a long commute. The black foetal balls of vestigial munitions or -

"How can I help you, sir?"
"I want a roll."
"An inside out roll, I guess."
"With spicy sauce."
"Ok. What kind of rice?"
"Whole wheat."
"You mean brown rice?"
"Yeah. That."
"And what do you want inside."
"Avocado and cucumber and um ... What's a crabstick?"
"A fish cake that tastes like crab."
"Yeah, I guess I'll have that. With extra ginger and soy sauce and the green mustard."
"So that's a California roll on brown rice with spicy sauce and extra ginger. Anything else?"
" ... "
"3 minutes."

That humming is really starting to grate. Like the afterbirth of a syphilitic reptile. I've got to get out of here. The only entertainment: plastic surgery disasters, fully erect boob jobs, facial injections from cartoon sweatshops. I've got to head for the door, walk out like I walked in, hit the ground, "got a wife & kid & Baltimore Jack" -

"Here you go, sir. Thank you."

Oil the gloves, this avocado is well past rotten up.

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