Post by distantlight on Jun 21, 2008 23:13:20 GMT -5
What kind of gay ass person has breakfast? I think the meal is for homosexuals only.
I mean come on. You wake up, the birds are tweeting away, the morning has zest, and all you can think of is to consume? "Must eat, must eat!"
Of course, if you wanted to be really gay, you'd have brunch. By the way, there is a very good place you can have brunch in Chelsea, where you can eat some "American Fried Rice".
"American Fried Rice Originally made for American soldiers who stayed in Thailand during WWII. It's an American Spin on a traditional Thai dish popular in Thailand but virtually unknown in the US. House tomato sauce fried rice served with 2 sunny sides, sausages, ham, raisins, and scallions."
I'm not lying:
menupages.com/restaurantdetails.asp?areaid=7&restaurantid=34107&neighborhoodid=0&cuisineid=65
Whoever that chef is is a fucking literary genius. But I'm not gay, so I don't eat it. Just like to mention the place, anecdotalike.
Anyway, a real man doesn't eat breakfast. He wakes up in the morning and then proceeds to harvest income, gripping the money purses by the throats and squeezing every last ounce of green that comes out.
He pauses at lunch, looking around, but if nobody wants to eat a meal with him, he just turns back to his job and continues squeezing.
The real man does not have fucking tea in the afternoon. We are going back into gay territory with fucking 'tea'. Only a homosexual would enjoy a drink where you have to use a nice tea cup and sip slowly. Tea is the reason that India was colonialized by those bastards. Because everyone just sat around and drank fucking tea like assholes.
He then walks home, when the evening becomes blue, and sits down like a real man at the table, where his wife puts some good, belly-filling dinner on a plate for him. He eats, to the horror of his children, and eats, and eats and eats.
Then, he sips some beers, and smokes some cigarettes, and then he lies down. The wife starts rubbing his chest, which makes the guy smile, because he knows she is hinting at something. But he will not acquiesce to this persistent goading.
At which point, she climbs over him, straddling the poor man, the old hag, and exposes his penis into her dripping wetness.
He wakes up, like, in the middle of the fucking night, unable to breathe with that demon on his chest.
I mean come on. You wake up, the birds are tweeting away, the morning has zest, and all you can think of is to consume? "Must eat, must eat!"
Of course, if you wanted to be really gay, you'd have brunch. By the way, there is a very good place you can have brunch in Chelsea, where you can eat some "American Fried Rice".
"American Fried Rice Originally made for American soldiers who stayed in Thailand during WWII. It's an American Spin on a traditional Thai dish popular in Thailand but virtually unknown in the US. House tomato sauce fried rice served with 2 sunny sides, sausages, ham, raisins, and scallions."
I'm not lying:
menupages.com/restaurantdetails.asp?areaid=7&restaurantid=34107&neighborhoodid=0&cuisineid=65
Whoever that chef is is a fucking literary genius. But I'm not gay, so I don't eat it. Just like to mention the place, anecdotalike.
Anyway, a real man doesn't eat breakfast. He wakes up in the morning and then proceeds to harvest income, gripping the money purses by the throats and squeezing every last ounce of green that comes out.
He pauses at lunch, looking around, but if nobody wants to eat a meal with him, he just turns back to his job and continues squeezing.
The real man does not have fucking tea in the afternoon. We are going back into gay territory with fucking 'tea'. Only a homosexual would enjoy a drink where you have to use a nice tea cup and sip slowly. Tea is the reason that India was colonialized by those bastards. Because everyone just sat around and drank fucking tea like assholes.
He then walks home, when the evening becomes blue, and sits down like a real man at the table, where his wife puts some good, belly-filling dinner on a plate for him. He eats, to the horror of his children, and eats, and eats and eats.
Then, he sips some beers, and smokes some cigarettes, and then he lies down. The wife starts rubbing his chest, which makes the guy smile, because he knows she is hinting at something. But he will not acquiesce to this persistent goading.
At which point, she climbs over him, straddling the poor man, the old hag, and exposes his penis into her dripping wetness.
He wakes up, like, in the middle of the fucking night, unable to breathe with that demon on his chest.