Al Sugiero's 2nd to last daydream

Stop Trying to Set The Scene!
Hawaiian Tropic tanning oil met high-pH water in to off white harmony. The supposed son of Galt MacDermot® was trying to look more like an extra in a “Soul Glo®” commercial than his DNA deemed necessary, or, it could be said, within reason. The gleaning off his pharmacy-last minute purchased aviator lenswear, showed the reflection of a pool perfectly mirroring the skyline and up in to the ghastly moon in the daytime. I was wandering by, the recent recipient of vending machine money from a 2nd-cousin’s ginger-besepectacled high-times reading friend, when I noticed the bottle of tanning oil falling in to the pool, it’s cap removed long before the oil and water made their ‘salsa picante’ in the side that read “No DIVING!” So what the hell was I gonna get at this third-world COCA-COLA® vending station with several sandy pieces of mother of pearl that I assured were a type of New-World Wampum that could be exchanged for any number of beverages from a particular brand-name dispenser that was savagely displayed all over their shell’s duller side. I made my graceful way up to the machine, diddled over the dials, with names that read like they were plucked from Denis Diderot’s encyclopedian armpit: SPRITE®, FANTA®, MR. PIB®, SQUIRT® and DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF CONGO® RED SODA WATER. There was a slot for the shell; two of them got me one 20. Oz bottle of my choosing; I hit “C4”, think of Chris Bosh, Chris Rock and taking off my flip-flops in the shade long enough to have the clunk of my drink down near my ankles awaken me. The red-sunglasses man is happy that I got him a Mr. Pib after having suggested I “surprise” him with my choice; this is getting gay. My 2nd-Cousin holds out an expecting hand, I push her out of the way as the steamroller comes crashing in to the north wall of the mini-compound/time-share luxury suites/micro-lending for local vendors in beautiful parts of Central Africa. Before I could get a word out, there were at my throat, smoke was pouring in like an exhaust pipe and I awoke coughing my head off.

COMPUTER ASSISTED LANGUAGE LEARNING IS THE FUTURE

Unoriginal Lameness

I woke up at 5 in the morning on Sunday and made a series of fake Radio Broadcasts.

Here's the first one: Dudcast

Crying.

BahBah

International Feel

Excuse me while I continue malingering, but I am sad to leave Huelva and am enjoying my slow breakfasts where internet is abundant.





Tom Robbins and Tom Waits co-wrote a novel in my dreams last night called; Deborah's Mayonnaise Prom Dress.

I'm having trouble breathing properly, again.





She's fucking great, huh?