Packed in like those millions of poor Perdue chickens awaiting mass genocide at the slaughter plant in Food, Inc., it was every man for himself. My elbow rest on an obese African-American woman's FUPA; my left buttcheek swears this Caucasian granny's right breast was brushing up against it. (Yes, they were hangin' pretty low.)
All this to order my turkey'n'avocado on ciabatta?? That is love.
I could hear nothing but inexplicable noise. It was just like bees buzzing around a hive. All those nasty earthy women smelling of patchouli and sweat with no bras on....unpolished toes peaking out of their vile Crocs. Their litters of children running around screaming in their tie-dyed shirts.....mouths encircled with Toffuti fudgesickle juice.
I could feel myself getting smaller in this sea of hornets. Sweating like a philandering politician on Maury Povich for the 498th installment of "Paternity Tests Revealed," Were was my motherfucking sandwich? The exit? "DOES ANYBODY HAVE A KLONOPIN?!," my mind and facial expressions screamed. "Of course not! This is the 'natural' crowd," I reasoned in between horrible thoughts.
'Turkey and Avocado Ciabatta for Phil?" I hear over the sea of funk.
I grabbed that sammy, and shoved people out of the way like my own bitchy version of a football player to get to the wedge-capped lilliputian cashier. Just as I was upon her she said it:
"WHAT did you just say?!," I yelped in my poseur-Julia tone.
I thought "panties" was the worst word. I was wrong.