We went to dinner at one of the Spanish restaurants last Monday night. It's odd, because the Spanish place is more Mexican, and the Mexican place is more like food from my toilet. Yes, that's digested food.
A bottle of cheap red wine later, we half stumbled out the door to go home. On our way, we met a very jolly English lass. She was mystified by Rui's latin looks. I was mystified by her hellishly mistreated hair. Doesn't Amnesty International care that she's torturing her hair like that? Is there a sudden lack of conditioner I should be warned about? Then again, the fact that her hair looked like burnt egg noodles was less of a worry than the fact that she was certifiably PSYCHO!! She wouldn't leave us alone, even to the point of running out in the road in front of a taxi to get to us. Trust me, you don't mess with taxi drivers here. Vehicular manslaughter is a badge of courage in these parts. After finding out Rui was Portuguese, she told us all about how her father was from Portugal. Maybe her mom slept with a glass of Port wine, and this poor girl got all confused. Who knows. The Iraq war makes more sense than this girl ever will. We only got rid of her, after she followed us like a lost puppy, by Rui pretending to be Spanish. Apparently, girlfriend has major issues with the Spanish. Hmmm... maybe she really is Portuguese after all. All I know is that she was about 30 seconds from getting a one-way trip on the Fist Express to Lisbon.
About five minutes later, we walk by a guy in front of the Heine Gerick motorcycle shop. I'm not sure what he was tripping on, but all you could see of this guy was pupils, and his upper jaw about to gnaw off the lower one. Imagine for a second that Gollum was the prettiest one in the family, and his fugly cousin came to visit, after doing some crack cocaine that he smoked out of a dead hooker's skull. But first, he has to stop in front of the Heine Gerick store to scare drunks. Obviously, this guy won't be winning any beauty contests any time soon.
Phew! We're almost home now. Surely we're safe. But no! Here comes a younger guy talking loudly into his mobile phone, except for the important part of not having a mobile phone!! Oh yeah, and he's not actually talking to another person, but he's sure as hell having a full conversation with himself. Yeah, that conversation was not being charged by Orange, nor would he get 2 for 1 tickets at the cinema on Wednesday, unless it was at an insane asylum.
The scariest part of this whole walk home was the fact that we were drunk, but we seemed to be the only normal people about. You've got to love Plymouth.
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