Johnny America


This Shenago


A new re­view of bar is now be­gin. Are you com­fort­able?

This time I go alone, (with­out “ex­pense ac­count.” And so: Jay Hol­ley is the CHEAP one.)

The Name Is a Dish

This Shenago is a dish. Yes, the cup of cof­fee, the lit­tle dish be­low. In Amer­i­ca, you are call­ing it SAUCER. I know this for “Klute,” this wom­ans for who this bar is THE BOSS. One time she buy me one drink, then she touch my leg. Long time for touch­ing. There up, on the toma­to. Hoopla! Rey­naud is not now pret­ty, and have those re­gret; but yet I laugh. This old broads is lik­ing MY WAY. They wish for me to put my shoe be­neath the bed. In my head, I am 29. What can I do? Some Yukon Jack? This “Klute” is nam­ing this bar for a dish, and she ma­nip­u­late piton. She is do­ing this, with some BUD LITE. OK. (The peo­ples are nice in this bar).

I Have Been Here


For the joobox:

Bad To The Bone; Sexy Tractor…

Free pop­corn.

Hap­py Birthday!

Come now, let us drink up­the rent.

I Am Sor­ry You Get Mad To Live

I am now know­ing things of this KKK. I am in this place apool­ing (the name for play­ing this game nam­ing POOL). This, wet hairs and most wretched hu­man ap­proach. I wish to give him the fi­nal BIGMAC coupon. This wretch: he re­sem­ble the ex­cre­ment. But I am sentimental.

“I play the win­ning one,” say this wretch.

“No, I play on­ly one time tonight,” say I.

“You play me or per­haps I shoot you down, you fuck­ing terrorist.”

“I am from Mar­seilles,” say I.

“I’m a DIXIE REBEL!” he say.

O.K. I beat his ass like one stink­ing goat. He was for­bid­den even one turn.

“Pay now ten dol­lar, Mon­sieur Souris,” say I. (He does not wish for this.) He at­tempt the es­cape, but I catch him. (He is tru­ly small, like the rat.)

“Be cor­rect!” I say, with the loud voice. And so he is giv­ing ten dollar.

“O.K.” I say. “Call taxi. I will pay for you.” (He go to make pipi.)

Sur la Tete

And so, I am sit­ting with this “Klute” –the Kali, touch­ing all liv­ing things, and in the back of my head comes one ex­plo­sion. BOOM! Then this “Klute” is scream­ing: “AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!” (I am not lik­ing it.) It is wet on my neck and then, my own bloods are up­on my hand. This tiny wretch is hit­ting me with the pool-stick. The big side. “NIGGER LOVER!” he is yelling for me. What is this? This Shenago? Are things be­ing wrong here? “GOD BLESS THE KKK!” he is yelling. He at­tempt one oth­er as­sault, but I am catch­ing now the stick. “Klute”: AAAAHHHHH! (en­core). Then I am un­seat­ing (the noise!), and em­brac­ing this wretch (yes, very tight­ly), and walk­ing for the PARKING LOT. I de­posit him there and it is raining.

“Do not be any­more stu­pid tonight!” say I (strong voice). “Here is ten dol­lar for taxi. Go to your Home.”

“I do not have Home,” he is saying.

“Then you must go away,” say I.

“YOU’RE FUCKING WITH THE KLAN!” then he is yelling, and run­ning for Street 6.

“What is this Klan?” I am ask­ing, and I am more wet, outside.

Is Nice

In this Shenago, for go­ing many time, I con­fess on­ly one time did I meet KLAN. I have make many the laugh­ings and danc­ings for the joobox. But I have al­so meet UNCLE DIRTY and this BRUCE (Warn­ing! Sit in an­oth­er place from this man!). And there are wait­ing hun­gry broads, al­so. You must like the fun­ny if you go to this Shenago. And this song, the SEXY TRACTOR. But most­ly all of the peo­ples there are nice. They are tired as well. I have said it.

Filed under Drinking on March 9th, 2004

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