I imagine that you folks in the U.K. are freezing your crumpets off right now, so I'll change the subject to something more pleasurable, beer, Guinness to be exact. Do you know the feeling of sadness you get when the bar maid takes your empty glass away? Time stands still until the next glass arrives. Your thoughts run back in time until you are that teen aged boy falling helplessly in love every week. Now, happiness is not having to go to the lieu after every beer. The pathetic substitutes we have for fake English pubs over here are complete with fake English bar maids trying to get by with an awful attempt at an English accent. In reality, they are all American silicone sally's with big boobs and I.Q.s smaller than their bra size.
We swill cold Budweiser, the urine of beers in hot weather. It was eighty five degrees Fahrenheit on Christmas day, and most teen agers were surfing, while their parents were playing Christmas carols on their iPhones while working on a malignant tan. In the fake pub I loudly announce my emergency trip to the porcelain paradise. The bar maids refer to it as, "The proclamation of urination. In the end, my Guinness arrives, and the world is at peace until one of the bar maids calls me "grandpa," Bitch!
|Camera:||Nikon Coolpix P510 Check out Nikon Nation!|
|Recording media:||JPEG (digital)|
|Date Taken:||25 Aug 2013 - 1:21 PM|
|Lens Max Aperture:||f/3.0|
|Exposure Mode:||Program AE|
|Flash:||Off, Did not fire|