Cuisine is becoming far too metaphysical for the likes of a man who wants for a simple sandwich. All that is gone, gone forever, perhaps only to return when a jar of peanut butter and a spoon becomes fashionable again. In other words, not bloody soon.
Same as it ever was.
Is there a blog called “Stuff White People Buy?” Internet, are we doing that still?
Because I may have an entry to submit.
You call it lazy, I call it inspired.
The Mexican restaurant in absence of the Mexican, exhibit C.
Last thing you remembered was getting into that cab, your legs aching from dancing but still ready to go all night. Oh yes, and that sweet stranger, the whispered invitation. Now you’re waking up face down in some foreign bed, crumbs ground into the sheets and all over your face.
Guess they call them “biscuits” here, but those babies know how to party as well as the cookies you knew back home.
American hot dog, get away from me.
American hot dog, doggy let me be.
Oh, I get your joke, ha-ha. The rapper Tupac, from California. Of course.
Don’t even get me started.
Who is foolish enough to explain such things as these? A taquería in the absence of Mexicans, the hyperbole of a Midwestern burger in the southern hemisphere.
The state of the nation.
The impenetrable loneliness of personal pan pizza, pizza meant for one.
Despite all outward signs, it’s no party here, no fun cone at all.
The only two-party system that works for me.
If you’re not for us, you’re against us.
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