On the way into the grocery store (you know the one
behind the cali fusion temple to tacos), what do I hear?
Didja get some last night, or didja go home ‘n make millions of shower babies?
Inside the store, subject to millions of images of gross ‘n grunty middle-aged paunchy grocery
store manager getting some—compliments of one overactive imagination—
I forget the sour cream.
In the local cafe (you know the one where the first owner went missing ‘n everyone’s got a tale
about what she’s up to now), what did one barista just say to another?
You couldn’t find it because you’re a guy and guys can’t find shit!
Would you like to hear her scowl—sour-faced and venomous—and link gender (any gender) to
lack as you sup your morning brew?
—Amber Hudson Fend