Honduras.
I wrote this a week ago and then I shot your mama down.
Oh no! Oh, yes. I am in San Pedro Sula, Honduras. I arrived on Tuesday in the afternoon. The air outside was moist and mountains were in the distance, mocking me with their height. I was supposed to be the tallest, stupid mountain! Some dirty child helps us get our luggage into our new friend, Luis’, Nissan Pathfinderesque vehicle without asking if we needed assistance. The next day, after eating baleadas and roasted pork with fried plantains, we step out to Karen’s car. Karen is Luis’ sister. Karen’s windows are covered with cardboard sheets to block out the sun. A skinny bum comes up and removes the cardboard. All these people doing shit that makes you feel as if you have to give them money. All those two people. I’m sure there will be more of that to come. In your face, bitch.
Our neighborhood is semi-gated. There are three little Mexican Hondurans standing in uniform at the entrance, taking IDs and smiling with scruffy beards. They will protect us from the hordes of poor, dirt children that live in muddy dirt, mudding up their mudhuts with dirtfloors and mudclocks that tell dirtpeople time which I’m not too familiar with since I had a shower today. The streets are clean and Spongebob smiles from the wall of a nearby daycare center. The houses are tightly packed and remind me of a nice ghetto. Nearly every house has a gate or wall in front of it. Most everything here does. It feels safe, though. Better for there to be guards with shotguns in front of TGI Fridays instead of cockroaches inside your face with bacteria from dirty water. What?
Delicious sugar water flows cheaply and abundantly. Mirinda makes a sweet little banana whatever the fuck flavor that is slightly carbonated. Coke and Pepsi are both made with sugar and taste different but not bad. Soft drinks here taste like melted popsicles. My pee is dark and my fingernails peel back to reveal microchips. Hello, I am full of drugs and would like to spend 50 to 100% more for electronics and American goods here than in America. Fourteen dollar alarm clocks and ten dollar bottles of contact solution gangbang your ass while cents-cheap vegetables fill your refrigerator and you rinse them off with bottled water instead of diarrhea poop water that hasn’t made me sick yet because I’ve neglected to drink it.
The school is nicer than a massage with a happy ending. It’s brand new and Brand New is scheduled to play there next week. See where I went with that? It has a bunch of drums and weird music stuff that I’ll play around soon when it’s set up. I can also check my email there in the computer lab. Seriously, this school is nicer than any that I attended. It even has a semi-Olympic sized swimming pool and air-conditioning and I think I saw a turtle. So there’s a turtle, too. I’m waiting to see a goddamn monkey, because that will fucking rule your balls. You’ve got serf balls, faggot. I need to go buy a guitar tuner because no stores I went to had any Boss TU-2 tuners and that’s fucking ridiculous. I’m going to throw a hundred bucks in the face of the local music instrument clerk and hit him in the balls with my new tuner.
Let’s go eat at Burger King in Honduras!
Oh no! Oh, yes. I am in San Pedro Sula, Honduras. I arrived on Tuesday in the afternoon. The air outside was moist and mountains were in the distance, mocking me with their height. I was supposed to be the tallest, stupid mountain! Some dirty child helps us get our luggage into our new friend, Luis’, Nissan Pathfinderesque vehicle without asking if we needed assistance. The next day, after eating baleadas and roasted pork with fried plantains, we step out to Karen’s car. Karen is Luis’ sister. Karen’s windows are covered with cardboard sheets to block out the sun. A skinny bum comes up and removes the cardboard. All these people doing shit that makes you feel as if you have to give them money. All those two people. I’m sure there will be more of that to come. In your face, bitch.
Our neighborhood is semi-gated. There are three little Mexican Hondurans standing in uniform at the entrance, taking IDs and smiling with scruffy beards. They will protect us from the hordes of poor, dirt children that live in muddy dirt, mudding up their mudhuts with dirtfloors and mudclocks that tell dirtpeople time which I’m not too familiar with since I had a shower today. The streets are clean and Spongebob smiles from the wall of a nearby daycare center. The houses are tightly packed and remind me of a nice ghetto. Nearly every house has a gate or wall in front of it. Most everything here does. It feels safe, though. Better for there to be guards with shotguns in front of TGI Fridays instead of cockroaches inside your face with bacteria from dirty water. What?
Delicious sugar water flows cheaply and abundantly. Mirinda makes a sweet little banana whatever the fuck flavor that is slightly carbonated. Coke and Pepsi are both made with sugar and taste different but not bad. Soft drinks here taste like melted popsicles. My pee is dark and my fingernails peel back to reveal microchips. Hello, I am full of drugs and would like to spend 50 to 100% more for electronics and American goods here than in America. Fourteen dollar alarm clocks and ten dollar bottles of contact solution gangbang your ass while cents-cheap vegetables fill your refrigerator and you rinse them off with bottled water instead of diarrhea poop water that hasn’t made me sick yet because I’ve neglected to drink it.
The school is nicer than a massage with a happy ending. It’s brand new and Brand New is scheduled to play there next week. See where I went with that? It has a bunch of drums and weird music stuff that I’ll play around soon when it’s set up. I can also check my email there in the computer lab. Seriously, this school is nicer than any that I attended. It even has a semi-Olympic sized swimming pool and air-conditioning and I think I saw a turtle. So there’s a turtle, too. I’m waiting to see a goddamn monkey, because that will fucking rule your balls. You’ve got serf balls, faggot. I need to go buy a guitar tuner because no stores I went to had any Boss TU-2 tuners and that’s fucking ridiculous. I’m going to throw a hundred bucks in the face of the local music instrument clerk and hit him in the balls with my new tuner.
Let’s go eat at Burger King in Honduras!