A pound of fried ants costs around twelve dollars. You can buy a six pack with that. I mean the ants are fine but I’d rather have the beer.
I’m in Columbia this week with my friend Jorge. There’s a place here called the Cholesterol Palace.
I just couldn’t stand to be in America for the Fourth of July. Too many commie bastards. Fuck em all.
Jorge grew up in the barrio, whatever that means. He’s six feet tall and weighs three hundred pounds. It takes seven beers to get him worked up, and I’ve only got twelve dollars.
I’ll be fine. All I gotta do is be brave and be kind. One day I’ll meet the kings of my homeland far beneath the earth, and, with the pale glow of eternity dulling age’s perpetually famished blade, those shy girls and I will make our amends.