The other day I heard a barista ask another cafe worker if they "liked Birds of Tokyo?". To which the other replied "Yeah, lets put some on".
I decided to never frequent the establishment again. I had a feeling they'd probably serve me a glass of crushed up biscuits instead of a granita. Not that I'd have a granita. But if I was a man with puffy nipples and an inability to ride a bicycle I probably would and I wouldn't order it from there. Anyone that listens to jerk-radio soft-rock made by porcine fellows with little ticklers and multi pocketed distressed denim needs to be shunted off to the far reaches of the country and locked up. And then beaten with licorice or a stick or something.
I ate a massive piece of cake today. It was so big I couldn't eat it. So I half ate it. My brother said I should wrap it up in a napkin and put it in my pocket and then eat it like George Calombaris. He said this was a good idea because it reminded him of a German guy he met in Northbridge outside a noodle palace. The guy had meat in a plastic bag and told my brother that he used to take tourists in Berlin to see a fat woman get sexed by a large black man. That was his job. My brother said that I reminded him of the sex tour guide and that a person with cake in a paper napkin is exactly the same as a man walking the streets with various meat pieces in a plastic bag.
I asked him if he'd like to come down to the wharf and if he had ever seen a man make love to a fish before.
Well half a fish anyway.