So I’m in Tampa for work and I’ve been hanging out with some very cool Air Force guys. Cool meaning, well, twisted. Like Anna and me! It’s funny when you break through the veneer of formality and turn into casually swearing 5-year-olds.
Besides that, I’ve eaten a bunch of Cuban sandwiches, run along Bayshore Boulevard by the water, and befriended a gentleman named Richard who runs the Nuevo Cafe and who’s worked in the hotel industry for 30-odd years. He even let me eat there after the place closed, when I was stumbling around by myself in a miasma of sweat, looking for something to eat. I recommend stopping at his place if you’re ever in Tampa, it’s pretty rockin’. I’ve had picodillo (beef with capers and stuff), fried plantains (which everyone should love, no exceptions), yucca, and the ever famous chicken and yellow rice. By the way, don’t confuse picodillo with pico duro, which is apparently Portuguese for “hard cock.” I’ll let you mull over that brainfuck for a moment and envision a glorious array of awkward situations. Not sure why you’d order Cuban food in Brazil or Portugal but whatever.
Done mulling? Not yet?
Now? Okay, now fasten your man and ladybrains securely to your pia and dura mater (Latin for soft and hard mother, respectively — they’re meningeal membranes that surround your beautiful mushy brain) for I am off to Miami to visit my pal Phil.
Now Phil is an upstanding young citizen with a penchant for…shall we say…raunchy humor, not unlike certain authors of this blog, so you may begin to realize that we hang out with exclusively crazy motherfuckers.
Well, you’re right. Now’s about the time I get to the bienvenidos a Miami part, since I’m flying out tonight. Prepare, citizens of the Glades! I’m coming. I’m gonna fight a goddamn gator.
(Note this is an anole not a gator…but I will pretend it’s a really fucking distant alligator).