DEEP-FRIED RATS ON A STICK!

This blogger is aghast at suburban females. In the past few days I have seen women wearing yoga pants with high-heels, tattooed matrons, ratchetts on the bus (Golden Gate Transit), and office bitch types with cups of coffee and cell-phones heading onto the freeway. Look ma, no hands!
I am certain some of these people are medicated.
Or subsisting on a diet of Jager-bombs.
Probably Xanax and Librium.
Booze, caffeine.

Considering what suburban males are like, this would be understandable, if only both of them weren't such mega-entitled self-centered jerks.
Keep the suburbs chemically calmed.
Drugs. They need drugs.
And Mary-J.


The reason for mentioning yoga pants and high heels is because that it is a particularly horrid combo. As regards specifying females, as a heterosexual male I am damned glad I am not connected to any of these ladies.

I am single.

And consequently, I get to eat gluten and meat, and not save the wales.
Oh, and dairy products, and NOT go to theatrical events or interpretive dance performances, and I also get to do stupid things like snarfing down bacon-wrapped hotdogs with jalapeños en escabeche after midnight ...

I have gone the entire two months leading up to Halloween without having to taste pumpkin spice bugger-all, even once, and other than my apartment mate's misguided experiment recently with a pumpkin pie from Trader Joe's (maybe it's her period?), I do not expect to grimace my face into a smile over some artificially flavoured shit and say "mm, good, this is brilliant dear!" at any point between now and January first.

Women who like juicy grilled chops, vindaloo, or steamed pork patty with salt fish, are wonderful. But they don't live in the suburbs.



This "stylish" soirée ends with hot Portuguese sausage and green chili sauce at three in the morning. We will not wear any ethnic jewelry or Andean woolens. There is no marijuana. Care for a cheroot?

There is a parked Toyota Prius over there.
Somebody set the f**ker on fire.
I hear cheering.




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