“Finch Point's eyes spotted a bonfire near the carnival today. Tell your kids to stay home today, and for all y’all who could care less about society, please boogie down from the funk that is this neighborhood. It’s an infectious groove constant that is sirens of both types, record needin bums with feelin, and soul suckin men who feed off hate and seedless aggression. We must stand strong and keep the good news in our step; come be a part of the Finch Pointe Catholic Church, and become enlightened through the power of the lord, you see we…” on and on the crazy old man who supposedly lived the best years of his life in the 70’s went on to support the church and bring in newcomers. Living in the basement of a Catholic Church with an old senile man and a p-bass it was normal routine to pay the pastor back by standing on street corners trying to get more people in the church so the pastor could easily pay off his bills and other necessities. By the time the old man (by this time you are probably hoping that I will say what the old mans name was, but I wont) finished his “inspiring” monologue, a few people clapped, and one guy with a name tag that said “Brockman” (dang, you gotta be one cool guy to have your name be a slang term) screeched like a hippo elephant hybrid a few foul obscenities in such a harsh tone that I wont even try to type what he said. All in all Brockman (if that’s even his name) seemed pretty upset about the whole thing, so I gave him a free pen (embroidered with the Catholic Church logo, which was a cheap banana yellow menorah because of a factory mix-up) in which he commenced to shove it where the sun I’ve heard doesn’t shine. I looked up to the sky hoping some sort of angel might take me to a place where I might have been in a mariachi band, but all I could see was smoke from what looked like a fire coming from the carnival…so much for fried and pickled goods.
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