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| - I was coasting down the highway; you know, 106 degrees, feeling no breeze, with Glock sitting between my knees. It would seem that nothing could ruin my mood that day: listening to early Cash Money, steamrolled enough blunts to smoke out the IRS building and about to enjoy an expresso.
I paid $2 for my drink. The prices aren't bad, and they're competitive with the other inferior coffee shops around town.
My expresso was sour. This means it was probably uncooked, or the machine improperly calibrated.
My lips curled upwards and started retracting into my orthognathic negro mug (F- you Alexander Graham of Prudential for denying a brother coverage).
This is worse than my experience at Starbucks, and I generally go into a mass market dump expecting fecal-grade products with a smile.
The novels they have here are laughable airport gift shop stock.
Some closure: the service I received on that very day was extremely poor, and I mean derelict impoverishment and abject poverty. I felt like a Jew that walked into a 1970's country club in LA.
I did not get a hello, but the prepubescent youth unschooled in gentlemanly ways did. From me, a customer. I don't expect a red carpet, and I'm not playing the Jessie Jackson race card here either, but treat a negro right, come on. I got a smirk from some tile-mopping apron-jerking prison pickle. I should have sat in Greensboro style and lit up a most contemptuous blunt.
Don't go here. Go to Desert Wind. They are top notch. By far the best I've had worldwide.
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