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May 7, 2007
Narvaez's Lunch
so i flexed my gold-medal-award-winning ass into the joint and found me the fattest, greenest, leatheriest, barber chair you could possibly imagine, it was all fuzzy in this, sort of, primordial cave-dice way, like a swolled up aorta-chair with a fine moss covering, well i sat me down on that fig-brain-water-mount and said i want you to do every fucked up thing to my hair you can possibly imagine and the girl with the long, long scissors said "excuse meh?" and i said i want you to cut a hair here and angle a slice there and i want to walk out of here with the most fucked-up, zig-zagging, frayed-end, bob-lookin broke-down haircut you can conceptualize and she just stood there as i eased my ass into the baseball-glove like grip of the sofa-chair.
there was a black light which spun little sparkles off the tips of my teeth, and because of this, the girl would not move. "but maybe i could just take a little off the ends—" she began, and i unfurled my miniature flag of spain that i would keep tucked away. it's time for narvaez's lunch i said enigmatically, with my eyes closed and a long sweep of black hair hiding half of my face. now slice. and shred. and leave me no dignity, woman.
but she refused. i thought i heard a sob, but when i dramatically swung round my red satin hood and matching sleeves, she was gone. i had no choice but to carry my beautiful locks out with me. still attached. to my head.
SUPERMILK is an expert Squeezer of Lemon, Thumber of Nose, and Navigator of Moronity. His mark can be found on the Bedpan of Hammurabi, the forehead of Dagonet, and the office stationery of Jorge Bourgoise. Additionally, he braised this tender piece of monkeymeat at 5:37 PM
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