Who really gives a shit about David Archuleta?

Today, I strolled down the block around noon to catch two plates of Mexican goodness.  The joint is probably my favorite cuisine in town – and their ant shit to choose from in town, believe me you.  And what exactly does that mean – believe me you?  I once knew a used car salesman, who acted as a major university football coach, and he would say ‘believe me you’ more so than often.  He also wore dress shoes with no socks.

I dinned around eight Jehovah witnesses, though did not strike up conversation about what they have witnessed.  All males in short sleeves, neck ties and pocket pens said enough.

The topic of conversation at the office is the breakfast place across the street, again. The conversation is now going on 2 months.  I banned the shithole two months ago after paying $8 for a small plate of eggs, a patch of harshbrowns and some sliced government cheese melted on top – they called it a mess.  I called it fucking ridiculous.

The other topic of conversation at the office is about the pregnant receptionist, but she does it know it.  She’s ridiculous, but not fucking ridiculous.