Bar Food

There is a chance that I may need to emigrate, just to make a living.

If I do, then my options are limited.

To conform to the national stereotype, I would probably have to resort to construction, bartending, or petty theft with menaces.

I prefer bartending, just because I like drink, and some drinkers (and dislike what concrete does to my skin).

But if I do, I need to bring something to the party.

I have this mad idea that, if I were a bartender, I would be allowed a little two-plate gas grill behind the sticks, so that when Joey from Muskokie got a little bit squintey and emotional, Gael Force B behind could knock up a little portobello, red pepper, garlic, egg and paprika (with side salad) pick-me-up, three minutes tops, costing fuck all, three reasonable servings per pan, and balance would be restored without gun-play.

(I hate to cook and shoot)

There is a gulf of difference between wishes, and wish-fulfillment.

It was fucking tasty, tho.....

(Jeebus H Christmas on a trike, look at the DOF on this fucker.

Brutal.

Note to self; Try To Be Sober When Taking Blips.

As if.......HAHAHAHAHAHA)