Great riches have come from the way I have chosen to live my life. Vast wealth’s, mountainous in stature helps keep my lifestyle afloat. But, as there so often happens to be, the great issue that is common, these hard spent hours find themselves locked away, amongst investments, loans, taxes and fees. As have I found that my riches have been locked away in a wealth of friends, experience and love. A bank that is open late, available on weekends and every time I drive by a branch or happen upon aroma or sound familiar in acquaintance makes me break out into uncontrollable joy.
In a world void of fantasy, feelings of Fortune 500 overwhelm me, as though I’ve made the 40 under 40. Amongst the real there are no late fees, just missed opportunities. There is no queue, just suggested paths. No awkward elevator tunes, just comfortable silence at sundown. Guardians of wealth, hero’s of freedom, systems to control change and choice, these are the stories reserved for the warm light of a glowing fire, myth and legend from a distant time, forgotten by the erosions and dilutions of natures washed hands.
Still and always, some investments can be frightening or risky, if you aren’t willing to invest in it all, what’s the point of loosing every last little bit in the end. After all, you can’t withdraw everything at once; no one can go about pretending with fiat time when there is so much that is truly tangible. That in part with high interest accounts and a low rate of fee, make for a bank truly worth bailing out, time and time again.
Knowledge and perception drive our three dimensional existence, tragically however power controlled by an illusion of wealth have driven a ship off course. With mutiny an option and available a tool ripe for the job, power is no match for the mind. Fear can no longer apprehend its perception when boundless becomes its wealth.
To all those banks still contacting me via snail mail and addressing me by my government issued name. Your loans, credit incentives and whimsical marketing strategies tempt me not. You can kindly take your greedy schemes, turn them into shreds of pulp, from these remnants make a corrugated receptacle, drop your sorry existence into said beige cube, seal it, stamp it and address it:
Some Other Universe,
Far Away.
THEN SHIP!!!
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Friday, August 5, 2011
The Backstroke Jive
News From The Anderson Range
Back at the Vehicle, drenched wet. Clothes off, shoes bubbling with squish and the new micro fiber towel saves the day. Back in the van to relax and ponder the day’s events.
One month prior, a right turn missed first go, Ken and the boy sat parked in the small pull out gazing through the “big screen” out and up in wonder. The chemicals of defeat running through them, the nerves of adventures anticipation floating away, the Anderson Range dripping with the skies delivery. The route’s summit, a cornice sizing the great wall. Sunburnt, drug caused thirst, bolt clipping in Kelowna will have to be satisfaction enough.
Yesterday started on time and without a hitch. Seven AM, all occupants in vehicle, headed east on a blue bird day, it was going to be a scorcher. Apres a wrong exit for a Canadian Tire pit stop, Tim Hortons was hit, now we could wander the isles of The Tire with patriotism as a false flag. Diesel engine cleaner and a full tanks. Beyond hope with food, an afternoon of leisure, lunch on a park bench, story time in the van. Off highway one, Anderson Service Road, leaving time for dinner and the approach. Back to visit the point of defeat, pressing on a kilometer and half into the over growing road. Soon the van has gone too far, the alder bows weep, now they moan and scoff, taunting the boy for his stubbornness, wanting anything but to waft the scent of failure once more (A side note; the weekend before, the boy and three others were turned around headed to Mt Ashlu, 10 km out from the approach hike a road “over grown”, 2011 Tacoma wanting not a scratch). After a turn around, where the road hardly was foot path, an opening for parking, packing, a last meal.
I Teacozy mount my stedfast steed, his reliability for success as of late under great question, throws his pack on. The road ignored, straight forth, a river crossing into terrain of planted new growth. Executive decision, by getting lost Master Ken, turn back, follow the road. Once more, good bye to the van, into the abyss, arms up Thai Bow style, wading through alders. Swimming in branches, backstroke, front crawl. Deepening severity. The road becomes run off, military training hands and knees, drowning in low canopy. The sun glistening pink off Steinbok. When forward seems no more an option, the ground continues to reveal once a trail, a few laps of breast stroke, the eroded hill side into the evergreens flirting its constant temptation, finally her allure too great, her top open, beautiful old growth. Up the bank, sliding, enter the forest, flagging blue and pink, could it be. Down below in the darkening depths of the valley the old road and the switch back from the map, the puzzle piece, does it fit true?
We depart from James and Kyla, their chosen route on Ibex, must traverse back and up to the next valley. Thomas, Ken, myself with the highest seat in the house, now with a view. They push up, out of the woods, flagging, a trail, talus, the peak casting its darkness over us. Up the rocks, like Hansel and Gretal looking back, a large flat tombstone marks the entrance to the old growth. The north lenticulars pink with evening passion, Q nimbus towering over them, a cloud mountain with the face of a seal.
Top of the talus, water running in depths, snow pack, flagging left, into the firs next slope, more talus, the arete concealing their chosen route (“best climb in the alpine select”) Another tombstone, a safe distance from the head wall, a bed for two. Gear readied, beds made, bug net, hideaway. The boys howled at the night, their excitement lost a month prior found on this fortress stone and echoed off the peaks walls.
Laughing at mosquitoes the blue bird day grays before night hides them. Lyra visible, shinning above, as long as the constellation can guide, worry is for fools. Lyra, what has become of you? Optimism too great, the next day will be cool, the conditions just right, less chance for dehydration, a solid snow pack in the decent gully. Night took the boys, the sleeping bag over me.
Hearing whispers, I awake the boy, “Thomas... It’s raining”, disbelief turns reality as the cocoon width drawn, mist hits me, then the boys face, Two AM. Its just moist out, nah, lay there mist become droplets, spelling out time to retreat. Up, out of the bug net, new sleeping bag we but working its charm. My dislike for water has Thomas stuffing me into the top pouch, a replacement a top his head, good I can watch from here. Packs strapped, headlamps on, in the pitch of night out along talus, rocks wet and teetering in the shadows, voice of be careful dancing through his mind. To the main talus, how do you like wet fir to the face, slap. Rain and fog thick, the direction even fresh in mind uncertain. The difference of the darkness, hiding visual way-points remembered. Then a cairn, ferns, signs of trees, a big rock flat, then flagging. Down through old growth, mist and rain settling. To the edge of the abyss, where forest ends, darkness and fog. This can’t be done, foolish now. Up the hill, a dish in the forest a dead branch for two, Therm-a-Rest out pack under to lean upon. Sat huddled beneath the filleted new bag, with that days lunch now consumed. The boy with booties, liner, PrimaLoft, Gore-Tex and hobo gloves, Ken in travel clothes, lazy, cotton pants, t-shirt, fresh win a new windbreaker, not water proof.
Hours to daylight the boy begins to drift, apologies as he slides down into a position for sleep. Once more, with an epic journey left incomplete they spoon for warmth. Forth-ward more a world of dreams envelopes, the forest a feverish bustle of eery cracks and snaps, pray vulnerable. As day becomes light a blanket of cloud obscures view of obstacles ahead, sleeping bag wet from new rains, still warm. Fog clearing, the phone alarms, the day for climbing, only a distant memory, future turned past. prepared for battle they traverse the sliding hillside, the run off now a stream, yesterday’s mud now puddles, foreseeing leaving being anyway worse was beyond imagination. Reality was a wet branch whipped to the face, shoes instantly joining the ranks of puddles, pants meaningless and a shower constant from above. Now this has to be a military exercise, water only thickening the drooping canopy of alder, like swimming in molasses, Thai Bow through a gauntlet of Chinese water torture, Guantanamo water boarding, The thought of dry clothes, food and greens dancing in the boy’s mind, stockings soaking wet legs forth-ward. Then after the final bough threw its punch, the van a sight for sore eyes. Four hours of van nap, a knock, James and Kyla with a tent all slept in, joy for them.
Teacozy, drying OUT!
Back at the Vehicle, drenched wet. Clothes off, shoes bubbling with squish and the new micro fiber towel saves the day. Back in the van to relax and ponder the day’s events.
One month prior, a right turn missed first go, Ken and the boy sat parked in the small pull out gazing through the “big screen” out and up in wonder. The chemicals of defeat running through them, the nerves of adventures anticipation floating away, the Anderson Range dripping with the skies delivery. The route’s summit, a cornice sizing the great wall. Sunburnt, drug caused thirst, bolt clipping in Kelowna will have to be satisfaction enough.
Yesterday started on time and without a hitch. Seven AM, all occupants in vehicle, headed east on a blue bird day, it was going to be a scorcher. Apres a wrong exit for a Canadian Tire pit stop, Tim Hortons was hit, now we could wander the isles of The Tire with patriotism as a false flag. Diesel engine cleaner and a full tanks. Beyond hope with food, an afternoon of leisure, lunch on a park bench, story time in the van. Off highway one, Anderson Service Road, leaving time for dinner and the approach. Back to visit the point of defeat, pressing on a kilometer and half into the over growing road. Soon the van has gone too far, the alder bows weep, now they moan and scoff, taunting the boy for his stubbornness, wanting anything but to waft the scent of failure once more (A side note; the weekend before, the boy and three others were turned around headed to Mt Ashlu, 10 km out from the approach hike a road “over grown”, 2011 Tacoma wanting not a scratch). After a turn around, where the road hardly was foot path, an opening for parking, packing, a last meal.
I Teacozy mount my stedfast steed, his reliability for success as of late under great question, throws his pack on. The road ignored, straight forth, a river crossing into terrain of planted new growth. Executive decision, by getting lost Master Ken, turn back, follow the road. Once more, good bye to the van, into the abyss, arms up Thai Bow style, wading through alders. Swimming in branches, backstroke, front crawl. Deepening severity. The road becomes run off, military training hands and knees, drowning in low canopy. The sun glistening pink off Steinbok. When forward seems no more an option, the ground continues to reveal once a trail, a few laps of breast stroke, the eroded hill side into the evergreens flirting its constant temptation, finally her allure too great, her top open, beautiful old growth. Up the bank, sliding, enter the forest, flagging blue and pink, could it be. Down below in the darkening depths of the valley the old road and the switch back from the map, the puzzle piece, does it fit true?
We depart from James and Kyla, their chosen route on Ibex, must traverse back and up to the next valley. Thomas, Ken, myself with the highest seat in the house, now with a view. They push up, out of the woods, flagging, a trail, talus, the peak casting its darkness over us. Up the rocks, like Hansel and Gretal looking back, a large flat tombstone marks the entrance to the old growth. The north lenticulars pink with evening passion, Q nimbus towering over them, a cloud mountain with the face of a seal.
Top of the talus, water running in depths, snow pack, flagging left, into the firs next slope, more talus, the arete concealing their chosen route (“best climb in the alpine select”) Another tombstone, a safe distance from the head wall, a bed for two. Gear readied, beds made, bug net, hideaway. The boys howled at the night, their excitement lost a month prior found on this fortress stone and echoed off the peaks walls.
Laughing at mosquitoes the blue bird day grays before night hides them. Lyra visible, shinning above, as long as the constellation can guide, worry is for fools. Lyra, what has become of you? Optimism too great, the next day will be cool, the conditions just right, less chance for dehydration, a solid snow pack in the decent gully. Night took the boys, the sleeping bag over me.
Hearing whispers, I awake the boy, “Thomas... It’s raining”, disbelief turns reality as the cocoon width drawn, mist hits me, then the boys face, Two AM. Its just moist out, nah, lay there mist become droplets, spelling out time to retreat. Up, out of the bug net, new sleeping bag we but working its charm. My dislike for water has Thomas stuffing me into the top pouch, a replacement a top his head, good I can watch from here. Packs strapped, headlamps on, in the pitch of night out along talus, rocks wet and teetering in the shadows, voice of be careful dancing through his mind. To the main talus, how do you like wet fir to the face, slap. Rain and fog thick, the direction even fresh in mind uncertain. The difference of the darkness, hiding visual way-points remembered. Then a cairn, ferns, signs of trees, a big rock flat, then flagging. Down through old growth, mist and rain settling. To the edge of the abyss, where forest ends, darkness and fog. This can’t be done, foolish now. Up the hill, a dish in the forest a dead branch for two, Therm-a-Rest out pack under to lean upon. Sat huddled beneath the filleted new bag, with that days lunch now consumed. The boy with booties, liner, PrimaLoft, Gore-Tex and hobo gloves, Ken in travel clothes, lazy, cotton pants, t-shirt, fresh win a new windbreaker, not water proof.
Hours to daylight the boy begins to drift, apologies as he slides down into a position for sleep. Once more, with an epic journey left incomplete they spoon for warmth. Forth-ward more a world of dreams envelopes, the forest a feverish bustle of eery cracks and snaps, pray vulnerable. As day becomes light a blanket of cloud obscures view of obstacles ahead, sleeping bag wet from new rains, still warm. Fog clearing, the phone alarms, the day for climbing, only a distant memory, future turned past. prepared for battle they traverse the sliding hillside, the run off now a stream, yesterday’s mud now puddles, foreseeing leaving being anyway worse was beyond imagination. Reality was a wet branch whipped to the face, shoes instantly joining the ranks of puddles, pants meaningless and a shower constant from above. Now this has to be a military exercise, water only thickening the drooping canopy of alder, like swimming in molasses, Thai Bow through a gauntlet of Chinese water torture, Guantanamo water boarding, The thought of dry clothes, food and greens dancing in the boy’s mind, stockings soaking wet legs forth-ward. Then after the final bough threw its punch, the van a sight for sore eyes. Four hours of van nap, a knock, James and Kyla with a tent all slept in, joy for them.
Teacozy, drying OUT!
Thursday, June 2, 2011
When the Stage Goes Black
The Curtain Goes Down
Flip up the screen, smack a key, and all systems go... and all systems go. The screen remained blank, beside the fact that the power button lit and internal organs were heard coming to life. Power down, power back up, and still nothing. I scoff at the boy, that's what he gets for trusting in a Mac, Worked fine every day for years and with no pre-signs of failure, no something gone wrong, just colossal absolute failure. So off to an authorized dealer, Tom wanted to support a small mom and pop store, but the train system only went one way, straight to down town Mac-vill, big box central. With a hundred buck diagnostic fee he swallowed his pride and headed for the train. "Stop narrating my life" the little boy screams “you’re starting to piss me off". With that he grabbed his other hat and with a desperate leap I was in his pack, city bound. After having Mr. Service stick his first aid kit in the USB, pushed a few buttons asked it to look left, now cough. Diagnosis got to head to the real Mac store, what no fee. First, have to go online and book an appointment first with a "genius". Just to tell the boy if he needed a new 2 grand part and whether he is the fortunate recipient of a free recall part. If not it’s a new computer and all the adobe software.
Well that's just another great day being shat on by the computer industry.
Teacozy out!
Flip up the screen, smack a key, and all systems go... and all systems go. The screen remained blank, beside the fact that the power button lit and internal organs were heard coming to life. Power down, power back up, and still nothing. I scoff at the boy, that's what he gets for trusting in a Mac, Worked fine every day for years and with no pre-signs of failure, no something gone wrong, just colossal absolute failure. So off to an authorized dealer, Tom wanted to support a small mom and pop store, but the train system only went one way, straight to down town Mac-vill, big box central. With a hundred buck diagnostic fee he swallowed his pride and headed for the train. "Stop narrating my life" the little boy screams “you’re starting to piss me off". With that he grabbed his other hat and with a desperate leap I was in his pack, city bound. After having Mr. Service stick his first aid kit in the USB, pushed a few buttons asked it to look left, now cough. Diagnosis got to head to the real Mac store, what no fee. First, have to go online and book an appointment first with a "genius". Just to tell the boy if he needed a new 2 grand part and whether he is the fortunate recipient of a free recall part. If not it’s a new computer and all the adobe software.
Well that's just another great day being shat on by the computer industry.
Teacozy out!
Mission Down By the Bay
Code Name Watermelon Grow-op
On the day of my birth, in the final hours as my mother strung the last few threads through, I was taught a valuable lesson, one so profound that until this day I would never quite believe. She told me, as her hand worked feverishly to finish the quiltie warm epidermis of my exoskeleton (it’s okay to use paradox descriptive nouns when I'm personifying myself, it sure is great being a toque), "At every pot of gold there is a rainbow". On this very day there was not one but three. Now I don't mean, if I was tripping off my rocker I'd be cracking out in religious ecstasy 'triple rainbow'. Today the rainbow but appeared thrice. That is two more times than the baby Jesus, and many times less than molested altar boys.
So what is the point of this story other than the boy had a great fucking day photographing and exploring on bicycle until his ass throbbed like another worked porn star. It means that with this great revelation of spirit I extrapolated new moral hygiene. Some may call it elitist narcissism, but they preach fluoride in tooth paste, drugs and vaccines. For I, Teacozy, it was the best damn bar of soap, a day which forth ward to infinity I hold neutrality to pessimism. Any who speak it will give excuse to ignore, as they speak only of failure. To those who say, can't I say one final word, 'must'.
"Is that a teacozy on his head?"
Teacozy out!
On the day of my birth, in the final hours as my mother strung the last few threads through, I was taught a valuable lesson, one so profound that until this day I would never quite believe. She told me, as her hand worked feverishly to finish the quiltie warm epidermis of my exoskeleton (it’s okay to use paradox descriptive nouns when I'm personifying myself, it sure is great being a toque), "At every pot of gold there is a rainbow". On this very day there was not one but three. Now I don't mean, if I was tripping off my rocker I'd be cracking out in religious ecstasy 'triple rainbow'. Today the rainbow but appeared thrice. That is two more times than the baby Jesus, and many times less than molested altar boys.
So what is the point of this story other than the boy had a great fucking day photographing and exploring on bicycle until his ass throbbed like another worked porn star. It means that with this great revelation of spirit I extrapolated new moral hygiene. Some may call it elitist narcissism, but they preach fluoride in tooth paste, drugs and vaccines. For I, Teacozy, it was the best damn bar of soap, a day which forth ward to infinity I hold neutrality to pessimism. Any who speak it will give excuse to ignore, as they speak only of failure. To those who say, can't I say one final word, 'must'.
"Is that a teacozy on his head?"
Teacozy out!
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Media Pass To The Puppy Olympics:
Sadly this story will be shortly sued by the Olympic police for copy right infringement.
Today was another beautiful winters day “cold” according to the locals, the boy was in flip flops (why he has chosen to wear them I can’t imagine) and refused to wear his trusted toque. So I relaxed in the comfort of a lawn chair facing into the backyard. I tried to catch a few rays in the mid day sun to no avail, my appearance remains gray and lifeless. The boy, doodled and went for a skate, seeming restless. Me, I gazed into the abyss, plotting a brainstorm.
A great distraction was the playful nature of the Puppy. After terrorizing the aloha plant and attempting to murder the chilly bush, before she bit the red fruit and had a swift lesson (swift being it needed thrice told), she invented a circuit of Olympic proportions. It went something like this; tag the lawn chair, sprint the court yard, jump the pond, avoid the chili plant. Then grab an aloha branch baton, run it between the cedar bush and fence, between the olive trees and into the long grass. Get distracted by a passing bird or fallen pine cone, become randomly frightened, chase the tail three times before its back through the olive trees squeezing the fence picking the aloha up, dropping it off by the remnants of its disembodied self.
Then the final leg, a sprint finish back to tag the chair all while avoiding the chillies. Stop the clock, what’s the time, place a bet down, for a new fastest time and off she goes again. Well, as you can see winter days are jam packed and full of surprises. For now I’m back to that sun tanning, Teacozy out!
Today was another beautiful winters day “cold” according to the locals, the boy was in flip flops (why he has chosen to wear them I can’t imagine) and refused to wear his trusted toque. So I relaxed in the comfort of a lawn chair facing into the backyard. I tried to catch a few rays in the mid day sun to no avail, my appearance remains gray and lifeless. The boy, doodled and went for a skate, seeming restless. Me, I gazed into the abyss, plotting a brainstorm.
A great distraction was the playful nature of the Puppy. After terrorizing the aloha plant and attempting to murder the chilly bush, before she bit the red fruit and had a swift lesson (swift being it needed thrice told), she invented a circuit of Olympic proportions. It went something like this; tag the lawn chair, sprint the court yard, jump the pond, avoid the chili plant. Then grab an aloha branch baton, run it between the cedar bush and fence, between the olive trees and into the long grass. Get distracted by a passing bird or fallen pine cone, become randomly frightened, chase the tail three times before its back through the olive trees squeezing the fence picking the aloha up, dropping it off by the remnants of its disembodied self.
Then the final leg, a sprint finish back to tag the chair all while avoiding the chillies. Stop the clock, what’s the time, place a bet down, for a new fastest time and off she goes again. Well, as you can see winter days are jam packed and full of surprises. For now I’m back to that sun tanning, Teacozy out!
Thursday, May 19, 2011
The Sea Letter Series
The Horse and Man, a Headless Messenger: Part 1
The Scorn of Phillips Bay, a pitiful swell from the sea waters that morning. The Sky ran with the blood of a thousand slaves. So as he road a shore the horse appeared a glistening pink (effeminate in connotation), when alas it was truly a noble white (like the whore Appletosh).
His rider, a young man in the rags of a once clean suite. His skin looked as though it had been left unattended in a bath for several weeks. This of course not the least bit shocking, having just ridden in from what appeared to be a long ocean journey. From his appearance it required not, the work of a CSI Sherlock to ascertain that the traveler had come 'long way up from Canadia way' to deliver the boy a message. For where the mans head once sat, amongst a monster mash of crabs, a flag pole had been implanted. At its point flapped unspoiled from its journey, the red white and maple leaf.
In the mouth of the majestic beast (a once proud free roamer of the earth), lodged within a decor diamond incrusted case, a hand written letter. The boy unfurled said note and from atop his small, oddly shaped head I peered down to read:
With the shock of seventeen virgins meeting Bin Laden’s remains (not necessarily for the first time), the boy dropped the letter into the sand. As swift and veracious as the letters almost magical appearance the hungry mash of giant crabs clapped and snatched it up, carrying it off back into the sea. The horse and its companion, as if driven by a force unknown, now lay a heap of bone and mush regurgitated by the sea.
The Bones and Mush, with Cloth: Part 2
With emotions overwhelmed, I hand my pen over, the boy will write.
For now we hide out at -39.97 by 144.69, fugitives of the WBD’s most wanted.
So for now Teacozy out!
FREE MARC EMERY - One year unjustly locked away
The Scorn of Phillips Bay, a pitiful swell from the sea waters that morning. The Sky ran with the blood of a thousand slaves. So as he road a shore the horse appeared a glistening pink (effeminate in connotation), when alas it was truly a noble white (like the whore Appletosh).
His rider, a young man in the rags of a once clean suite. His skin looked as though it had been left unattended in a bath for several weeks. This of course not the least bit shocking, having just ridden in from what appeared to be a long ocean journey. From his appearance it required not, the work of a CSI Sherlock to ascertain that the traveler had come 'long way up from Canadia way' to deliver the boy a message. For where the mans head once sat, amongst a monster mash of crabs, a flag pole had been implanted. At its point flapped unspoiled from its journey, the red white and maple leaf.
In the mouth of the majestic beast (a once proud free roamer of the earth), lodged within a decor diamond incrusted case, a hand written letter. The boy unfurled said note and from atop his small, oddly shaped head I peered down to read:
“The great democracy of minorus governmenos has fallen. The party for which you voted was not successful. With this news we regret to inform you The Stephen Harper Government summons you for military service or to serve a mandatory minimum sentence. - Sign Ottawa"
With the shock of seventeen virgins meeting Bin Laden’s remains (not necessarily for the first time), the boy dropped the letter into the sand. As swift and veracious as the letters almost magical appearance the hungry mash of giant crabs clapped and snatched it up, carrying it off back into the sea. The horse and its companion, as if driven by a force unknown, now lay a heap of bone and mush regurgitated by the sea.
The Bones and Mush, with Cloth: Part 2
With emotions overwhelmed, I hand my pen over, the boy will write.
“For Many of you reading this, it is possibly to late. Teacozy had assured me 'we had more time'. Sadly, since this message took so long to arrive via horses mouth, many of you are certainly now serving mandatory minimum sentences for simple possession. By this time we are fully entrenched in an endless war against the citizens of Afghanistan for the crude underground and pipes rolling over the hills in which they live. Surely all same sex marriage licenses have been burned and the DEA plus American MP have been welcomed in, to support the fascist regime leading our country over cliffs edge.
Fear not, for I shall not give myself over to the Worlds Biggest Douche now running our country and will remain at large until freedom is reborn. - sign Yours truly, Thomas"
For now we hide out at -39.97 by 144.69, fugitives of the WBD’s most wanted.
So for now Teacozy out!
FREE MARC EMERY - One year unjustly locked away
Friday, May 13, 2011
The Black Man’s Burrito
Well Thomas is questioning me but I’m going with the correct term for this instance, black man, and to ruin the story, the white boy took the burrito, typical.
So the kid went out with his friend and this fellow named ‘Zippy’. This name, which in no way describes his pace, but rather acquired from a ultra stoned Canadian filling in for a fill in as a radio DJ. After clarifying on the phone, a song request and shout out, Canadian dude finds he could not read his own writing and fires the request out to Zippy. It’s sad to say a lot of Canadians are like that. I don’t mean high all the time, stupid, that’s what I’m saying. This isn’t to say the rest of you are any the wiser.
The three boys headed to a huge block buster of a book store that was closing down. Now maybe Australians don’t do a whole lot of reading, but I know they love buying things for no reason (just like Americans), but it was no wonder, most the store was filled with shit books. The kid tried to buy three books, I convinced him to put them back. How rash the discussion making skills of a starving boy, thankfully he still listens to the ol' Teacozy, even in moments of starvation.
So after that tortuous experience, Mexican food, where the boy ordered a quesadilla rolled like a burrito. Now keep in mind this place works much like a subway, where “fresh” ingredients lay front facing and you request your ingredient to a basic extent. After watching his quesadilla get ushered away to the fryer, he shuffle left (because everything here is opposite) to the end of the counter, where he selected the most interesting man’s beer and paid.
After I harassed the new girl who failed several times to process the order, the boy grabbed the wrapped food item that just moments earlier was put down next to the till, but further from his reach. I tried to mention it probably wasn’t his but at this point he was far too hungry to listen to even me, let alone notice the large black man who had ordered right after him. Sitting with his open beer, he unwrapped the unique creation that he had ordered. Cam managed to observe its similarity to the other orders.
So as he dove into the black man’s burrito absent to noticing it was merely a beef and bean burrito, with no vegetables and spicy as hell. I watched the girl who had made his quesadilla wrap walk over and I couldn’t help but laugh (as we teacozy’s do). It was only moments before whitie or as Cam calls him slim (thanks to a barista that assumed he didn’t want mayo in his sandwich, which happened to be correct, but then assumed he wanted slim milk in his latte, because well if you hadn’t notice the boy isn’t terribly fat, she reassured herself he wanted this by stating “slim” after he ordered [not even in a questioning manner, but more as a statement]). Moments later the look on Tom’s Face was priceless, with a mouth full of black mans burrito, face wide with shock. He knew now what he had done, but to his surprise she handed him the wrap stating she would otherwise have to throw it out. Score he thought, “lunch tomorrow, for free!!!”.
Well, we all learnt, whether you say African American or as I like to say, Black Man in Australia’s Spicy ass Burrito will make you suffer greatly the next day, several times.
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