Category Archives: Sagramore [mis]Adventures

BAD THAI

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WARNING: Adult language and themes

Sagramore stared at the menu with some trepidation. He didn’t really know what went into Thai food in even the upper echelon establishments, and shuddered to think what was used in mall food courts. The lady behind the cash register, who looked Hispanic, stared at our hero impatiently. Sagramore, in turn, was confused as there was no one else in line, and he had no idea what the rush was about. Eventually, he decided on menu combo 2, which he dared not pronounce as it seemed to possess too many vowels.

The kind lady asked Sagramore what kind of meat he desired.

“What, like beef or chicken?”

She sighed with the patience of someone tending kindergarteners and responded, “beef, chicken, pork, or tofu.”

“Wow. SAT time. One of those is not like the others.”

She stared at him dumbly.

“I just mean, tofu isn’t meat.”

Nothing.

“I’ll have the chicken.”

She clicked something on the cash register.

“How spicy? We have levels 1  to 5.”

Sagramore was fresh off the boat, back in the USA. He had spent four years in Japan, where the popular pallet had no tolerance for spices. He assumed American Thai establishments where as parsimonious with their spice supply as Japanese ones. He ordered a level four.

Five minutes later his mouth was on fire and his shiny, new Hugo Boss dress shirt was covered in sweat stains large enough to be seen from orbit. The portions were large, as well. But our proud hero is a trooper, so he finished his meal and drank two sprites. After a quick visit to the bathroom to freshen up, he darted out of the mall and headed to the theater.

Continue reading BAD THAI

Her Dad

WARNING: Adult language and themes

Sagramore’s right foot tapped the floor to the beat. His arms were crossed, his back leaned against the metro station wall. He had been listening to Bloc Party on shuffle since he left home. Four had really been growing on him. Eyes closed, he didn’t bother looking down at his watch. Sagramore knew it was well past 15:00. It must have been at least 5 after. Punctuality was an underappreciated trait in Japan, judging by his circle of friends, anyway. A hand tugged at his elbow; he opened his eyes.

Nana looked up at him, expectantly, breathing heavily, as if she had just finished running a marathon. She spoke, but Brit rock poured forth from her lips. Sagramore pulled the earbuds out.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Of course, in Japanese she literally said, “I made you wait.” It’s not even an apology, which had always bugged Sagramore. Anyway, idioms are what they are. Nana grabbed his right hand, and led him away from the wall.

“Come on, my dad is very impatient.”

“Whoa now, you’re the one who was late. Don’t shif—wait.”

She turned, and looked directly at Sagramore. The right edge of her mouth curled into a smile that would have been perfectly innocent, if it weren’t wholly mischievous. Her eyes were large, unmarred by any red veins, two giant spheres to which the rest of her face clung.

Your…dad?!

Continue reading Her Dad

String Theory

WARNING: Explicit content

This story is dedicated to two friends of mine, who know who they are.

Sagramore buttoned up his plaid shirt to boob level, and let the rest fan out into a glorious V, revealing chest hair and a sneak peak at a white wife beater. Next, he rolled up the sleeves halfway up his biceps, to show the barest hint of emerging muscle. A quick glance at the mirror revealed a full, trimmed beard, which completed the look he had dubbed “The Alcide.” Sagramore was ready to party.

Some friends of a friend were hosting a soiree at their place near Ueno. He had never met them; they were a group of Taiwanese who all lived in Tokyo physically together but in different life eras, spanning college, 20’s, and 30’s. Their friend, and his friend, Ayaka, was a pretty hot number. Unfortunately, Sagramore was balls-deep in the friend zone. Complicating matters was the fact she would probably be at the party, too.

Continue reading String Theory

The Wheels on the Bus

The bus wheeled into the Yamazaki IC stop at 17:29 on the dot, exactly on time. Sagramore slung his backpack over his shoulder, and climbed the steps onto a mostly deserted vehicle. Sleeping forms dotted the interior cabin. After grabbing a little stub from the ticket machine, he made his way to one of the window seats in the middle of the bus, on the left side. His lower body was sore from a weekend of rafting in Shikoku, and sitting down felt pretty good. The earbuds went in, the downbeat trip hop turned on, and his eyes closed shut. The bus ride to Osaka would be about 2 hours. It was time to relax.

Continue reading The Wheels on the Bus

The Horror

My brobot is here in Japan for a visit this week, so I didn’t have anything to post. There’s proof over there to the right; that’s us at a tea shop in Kyoto.I was afraid to post nothing, and risk Deprava’s passive aggressive resentment. After browsing through my catalog of unpublished works, the best I could find was the ensuing short story. I had never published it before because it makes no sense and is not very good, but here’s to hoping it’s better than nothing…

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V

WARNING: Explicit content

The wall-mounted air conditioning unit hummed with activity above Sagramore’s head. The annoying noise, and the vibrations coursing down the wall towards our hero’s reposed figure, were the only proof the cursed machine was even on. It certainly wasn’t cooling anything. The late-afternoon summer heat was hovering just below unbearable. He lay immobile upon his bed, and his lethargic gaze fell forward, focusing on the opposite wall of his bedroom, past an erect penis he wasn’t sure what to do with at the moment. He was convinced any activity at all, even mere thought, would speed up his metabolism and raise his body temperature, which would be undesirable. Paramore’s bitchy brand of pop/punk rock flowed out of his computer speakers, and he suspected the upbeat music was somehow making the room hotter. He should have chosen some downbeat trip-hop. Anyway, the laptop was far too distant now, propped up on the opposite side of his bed, and the music couldn’t be changed. He could feel the heat emanating from the damned computing machine. Every object in his room seemed to be shooting out heat rays, like those sauna rock things in saunas. He was hot, and so continued to do nothing but lie recumbent in bed, baking in the natural kiln that is a Tokyo Summer. He looked at his watch; it was 4:12pm.

Continue reading V

The Innocent Abroad: Part 2

WARNING: Explicit Content

She was sitting up at the edge of the bed completely naked. Her legs and arms were crossed, the latter lifting up and squeezing together her insubstantial breast into something closer to substantial. Sagramore was standing right in front of the girl; her head was exactly crotch-level.

“What’s wrong? Do you want me to undress you? It’s ok. Your friends are paying.”

Continue reading The Innocent Abroad: Part 2

The Innocent Abroad: Part 1

WARNING: Explicit Content

“How do you say cold in Korean?”

Cold? Ah, you say chuweo.”

“What? Chuo-wo?”

“No, like this: chuweo.”

“Huh? That sounds like Mexican gang slang…How the hell did you people invent these sounds?”

Sagramore had just exited the taxi with his Korean colleagues, and in an exercise of resisting-the-Borg-level futility, was also trying to pick up some Korean from the members of Seoul’s Globocorp branch office. Unfortunately, the Korean language is composed of sounds no Western mind could imagine in its strangest fantasies. Sagramore had no idea what kind of vowel-defying deep structures were buried within his colleagues’ brains, but he himself certainly wasn’t equipped with them.

Continue reading The Innocent Abroad: Part 1

Secondary Income

Sagremor was walkin’  the ol’ dusty trail back to his home with a sushi-filled tummy. For the past 6 months or so, he had been eating at a marginally palatable 100yen sushi place called Uoemon. It’s near his train station, so the convenience factor made up for the post-meal nausea. However, he had recently discovered another 100 yen sushi place, Kurobei, (of the Genki Sushi Group) near the station’s opposite entrance. Much better. Tres delicious offerings at just as affordable prices; basically, a win-win. Back to the matter at hand, after 22 plates of sushi and 2 orders of black sesame ice cream, Sagremor was hauling his bloated frame back to his walk-in-closet sized apartment, when a car hit him.

Here’s how it went down. Our knight errant got to a fairly large intersection and stopped, since the crossing light was red, which means stop even in the orient. It was about 9pm at night, and there was very little traffic, both human and mechanical, out and about. Sunamachi isn’t known for it’s lively night-life. As he waited patiently for the light to change, his leg and fingers twitching in an antsy and childish nervous habit he’d never been able to shake, Sagremor started thinking about what kind of guitar to buy. The cheapest he’d found was sort of a reddish color, but the store also had a cooler-looking light blue one he preferred. It was a bit more expensive though…Ooh! The light turned blue! (In Japan lights turn blue, linguistically. In reality they still turn green, but for some reason the Japanese refer to blue lights…must have something to do with Bushido, I’m sure.)

Sagremor burst forth onto the pedestrian crossing lane, anxious to get home and the hell out of the cold. About 3 steps into the street, he noticed bright lights, originating from his right, shifting about behind him. A curious creature by nature, he turned to his right, and saw a car turning left into…well…him. Most human beings’ natural reaction would have been to jump the hell back and out of the car’s path. However, Sagremor had 2 things working against him. First and foremost, though a battle-hardened knight of the Round Table, he’d been gifted with historically awful reflexes. You know how doctors knock on your knee with a plastic hammer and measure the response? Well, Sagremor’s knees have never moved, to the bafflement of many pediatricians. Secondly, whereas most living creatures tend to prioritize self preservation, our good knight places much higher value on not wanting to be blamed for anything. A quintessential Italian trait. You know why the Parthenon is all in shambles? Hint: It’s not old age. Notice how no one seems to remember Italians invented Fascism? Everyone still knows Germans and Japanese were the bad guys in WWII, and blames them for everything, yet Italians have somehow tricked the world into thinking they just sort of weren’t there from 1938-1945. This may partly be due to the fact that the very minute an American boot stepped onto Sicily, Italy crumbled and surrendered. Regardless, shifting blame is as Italian as tax dodging and badgering foreign women.

As the car continued to edge closer to our heroic knight, exhibiting no signs of slowing down, Sagremor looked up at the traffic light to make sure the pedestrian crossing marker was blue(green). It was. The relief of knowing he wasn’t accountable for any kind of monetary penalty comforted Sagremor just as the car’s front bumper hit his right knee. Now, the car was turning, and was thus moving at a comically slow pace. The first impact sort of nudged Sagremor to the side, but the car kept moving, and pushed his right knee into his left, causing him to lose his balance and topple over onto the hood of the car. He then rolled over onto the windshield, at which point the driver decided it was a good time to start applying pressure to the break pedal, but with max force, immediately halting the car in its tracks. Our ambushed knight errant then rolled back off the hood and fell to the ground on his butt. That’s the part that hurt the most, by the way. In fact, as he’s typing up this very report, Sagremor is actually lying on his tummy eating apple slices, since sitting down kind of hurts. And apple slices just taste good, way better than the whole fruit, for some reason.  Right, so the whole event took about 5 minutes, since the car was moving so slowly. Let’s hope no video will find it’s way onto Youtube…

Sagremor was sitting on the ground, and hadn’t quite finished freaking out from the near-death experience. He heard a car door open and a middle-aged woman stepped out to A. check if he was OK and B. confirm all negative stereotypes regarding Asian women driving cars. (Now, don’t freak out and call your humble narrator racist. Personally, the author has nothing against Asian women driving cars. They’re just as dangerous behind the wheel as women of any other ethnicity) She did the usual Japanese “Oh my God, it’s a foreigner in a situation in which you do not usually find foreigners. How do I survive this?” face, and then helped Sagremor stand up. Surprisingly, he seemed to be fine. Not a scratch on him, and his butt pain was really the only inconvenience the event seemed to have caused. Maybe he’s an X-Man superhero or something? Could Sagremor really be Wolverine?! Honestly, he was pretty excited about the prospect of using his super human powers to fight crime. He would need to run more tests to verify the hypothesis, but the initial returns seemed promisin–Oh no! He noticed a tear in his suit pants. Bummer.

The lady driver apologized profusely, and kept asking if Sagremor was hurt. He told her he felt fine, really. No worries. However, he did mention his suit was torn. He then asked her for her name and contact info, just in case. Seemed sensible. A look of horror flashed across her face. She glanced around, but nobody was in the vicinity. A few people had walked by, but after flashing the usual Japanese “Oh my God, it’s a foreigner in a situation in which you do not usually find foreigners. How do I survive this?” face, they just kind of sped up their walk and moved on. She leaned back into her car and re-emerged holding a large wallet with the letters LV gaudily plastered over every square-inch of faux-leather surface. How did the French ever trick anyone into thinking they had fashion sense? Anyway, she pulled out two 10,000yen bills (about $243 using today’s exchange rate), and handed them to our confused knight errant. She then went on to assure Sagremor he looked fine, and was almost certainly injured in no major way. The lady driver also seemed quite confident that 20,000 yen would be more than enough to repair a suit, or even buy an entire new, reasonably-priced, one. At the end of frantic monologue, she let it drop that it would be better to just leave the police and insurance out of everything, as the bureaucracy and process  involved would ultimately prove to be a big hassle and much ado about nothing.

Sagremor stared at her, dumbstruck. Was he being bought off? First, he had discovered he was an invulnerable super hero, and now he was thrust into the middle of legal, and perhaps political, intrigue. Where were the cameras?! He was a bit suspicious though, a tad bit worried. However, above all else, Ser Sagremor is a greedy creature. He thanked the lady driver for the money, and agreed it would probably be enough for the suit repairs, but that he thought it prudent to take down her info anyway. She dumped out the last 2 bills in her wallet, and handed Sagremor another 15,000yen, for a total of 35,000 (about $426). She said that was all she had. Sagremor smiled, and admitted the authorities and insurances companies should be left out of such a trivial incident. The lady driver jumped back into her car, and drove off into the night, but not before Sagremor noted her license plate number and wrote it down in his daily planner. Just in case.

And so our hero pranced back to his home carrying an injured ass and a heavier wallet. His mind danced with thoughts of spending his hard-earned money. His brain romanticized over the possibilities, but where to start? perhaps a light-blue electric guitar?

Later days,

Sagremor

Fear and Loathing and Espresso

Last week was a busy week; professionally, I mean. My personal life doesn’t tend to get as busy as my work life, unfortunately. Right, so I was busy last week. Thursday was an especially busy day. Details would be superfluous in this context, but suffice it to say several appointments and a trade show visit figured prominently into me getting back to the office at 6:45pm, and wanting to get the hell home as soon as possible. Imagine my elation when my boss said I would need to go to an espresso tasting in his stead since he didn’t feel like attending, and the company had already paid the fee to participate. Somebody had to go.

What the hell is an espresso tasting? Great question. I’m still not sure myself. It does seem to involve old Italian men with too much time on their hands, old and single Japanese women, and levels of pretentiousness that shouldn’t be possible. Apparently, an espresso can be judged by over 15 different olfactory, visual, and taste dimensions, which I think can all be mathematically supported by string theory. I don’t know, but it was all damn complicated. What made things even harder was the fact all espressos, whether from Lombardy or Sicily, taste like burned paper. There’s a reason people invented sugar, milk, cappuccino, regular coffee, tea, etc.  Anyway, long story short, I drank about 10 different espressos, from 8pm to 10pm, and that set up the following.

Warning: mature/explicit content

Sagremor was jogging. It was almost 11 pm, but sometimes he liked running after dark. The city always looked better at night in his opinion, all lit up. He wanted to write poetry. The Tokyo skyline looked like glowing pillars holding up a tenebrous cloak. Well, that was crap; maybe later he could think of something better. Granted, he usually jogged in shorts and a t-shirt, not wearing a 3-piece suit and carrying a briefcase. But tonight was special. Tonight he had 10 espressos coursing through his veins, pumping him full of unholy, roasted energy. His inner body temperature was about 200 degrees; he could feel his blood turning into vapor and flowing behind him in a stream as he ran home from the train station. He noticed he was coming up on a lady walking a little Chihuahua-like dog, and he ran straight at them, leaping over the dog. It let out a little yelp of surprrise as he flew over it, and he waved behi-

He was standing in front of his door, on the 3rd floor of his crappy, little building. He turned around just in time to see the spacetime wormhole close in on itself behind him. He had just leapt 7 minutes into the future. He unlocked his door and stumbled inside, bathed in sweat. As his body temperature continued to rise, Sagremor stripped off his suit down to only his underwear, and stood directly beneath his air conditioning unit. He was still crazy hot, and the AC didn’t seem to be working. He ran over to his bathroom and splashed cool water onto his face. Then he ran back under the AC….no change. Dammit! What the hell was go—oh, it wasn’t turned on.

He heard the little dog-mounted knight from Labyrinth scurry across the ground behind him, but he didn’t want to turn around, since he was afraid. Sagremor kept standing under the AC hoping to cool down. After a few minutes he moved over to his bed and sat down. He grabbed his pc (not a Mac) and turned it on. He also turned his television on. He heard a crashing noise in his kitchen/dining room/living room hybrid small-ass Japanese room thing. He slammed the door shut, and checked email. His computer felt hot, but somehow, the pc heat against his thighs counteracted his espresso-fueled inner body temperature. This hot balance seemed to work, so Sagremor just sat on his bed, sweating.

He opened up the word file for a short story he had been working on, but he couldn’t concentrate. He looked at his clock; it was 11:38pm. He was hella tired, but also wide-awake. He wanted to watch illegally obtained Naruto episodes on his TV, but he didn’t want to reach for the HDMI cable because of the Indian man at the foot of his bed jiving his head from side to side like some kind of hypnotic cobra thing. He had met him earlier that day at the trade show, kept bobbing his damn head left to right like a brown metronome with creepy eyes. Disconcerting as shit. How had he gotten into his apartment? He turned his computer off and put it away. He stared at the clock; it was 11:27pm. He got up, and walked over to his AC unit again. After a few more minutes he decided to try and go to sleep, so he turned the light off and lay down on top of his sheets.

Sagremor dreamt of peeing. Recalling the specifics later proved impossible, but he knew he dreamed of peeing a lot. Gallons.

He woke up, suddenly, with an aching pelvis. He had to pee urgently. He got up and ran to his bathroom. He lifted the toilet lid and looked down, only to see quite possibly the largest and hardest erection he had ever experienced. He managed an awkward, angled crouch, which would in theory aim most of the pee into the toilet bowl, but none would come out. It then became clear he physically didn’t need to pee. However, dreaming of peeing had somehow convinced his mind of the urgent need to relieve himself. So his brain was projecting the pain of a full bladder onto his actual, not-so-full bladder. Sagremor was freaking out. How the hell could he pee? Meanwhile, his angled crouched over the toilet was getting harder to maintain has his legs tired. He started stamping his left foot impatiently, and concentrated as hard as he could into peeing. After a few minutes pee somehow shot out into about 4 different streams, most of the discharge falling into the toilet bowl. He flushed and stumbled back into his bedroom. He lay down again, completely awake, and tried to sleep one more.

Sagremor dreamt of sex with elderly women and masturbation. He wasn’t sure why he would dream of masturbating; I mean, it’s a pretty run-of-the-mill….wait, the masturbation part was real.

He opened his eyes. His sheets were drenched in sweat, and that dam Indian man just kept bobbing around and staring at him. He heard strange noises from outside his window. It was cats having sex in some alleyway, near his house. Great, those damn things go on for hours…He rolled off the bed, and started doing pushups to work off some energy. After about 7 he got bored and got–

He landed just past the dog and kept on running towards home. Deja’ vu washed over him like a sledgehammer as he jogged onwards. Can something even “wash over” like a sledgehammer? Anyway, The streets were completely empty; not a car in sight. He looked into windows, and convenience stores, but saw no one. The lady and dog he had recently run past were gone. He came upon a red light and stopped. The world was completely still. The various lights and functioning electronics added to the eerie feeling of desolation. He strained his ears trying to catch something, but he heard nothing but the inner sounds of his own body. Suddenly, the faint sound of a pan flute wafted into his consciousness, seemingly bypassing his actual aural sense.

The flute grew louder, and then a drum joined in. Sagremor canvassed the horizon, but could not pinpoint the origin of the sound. Cymbals and wood blocks jumped into the musical panoply, creating an Asian festival atmosphere. The traffic light was still red. His peripheral vision caught movement far off to this right. Soon, a group of about 5 people came into view. The procession wore red coats and straw hats, and little else. They came forward in an awkward dance as they played various instruments. As they moved in closer, Sagremor noticed none of them had faces. Their hairline descended upon a blank, skin canvas. The band walked on through the street, right past him, without pause. A sense of dread seemed to accompany the group, and Sagremor would have hidden were he not frozen with fear and incomprehension. As the group moved further and further away the music dwindled, and he let out a nervous cough of relief. The band froze in tracks; the music stopped.

The flute-player looked in Sagremor’s direction inquiringly, and the entire group quite suddenly rushed back towards him. He turned to run, too late, and felt hands grab his legs and force him to the ground. He struggled as they turned him around and grabbed his head, probing around his face. Fingers gripped his left eye socket, as others grabbed hold of his eyeball and pulled. He would have screamed, but his tongue was similarly being forcibly removed. He waved around frantically, trying to fight off his aggressors when a—

He was sitting down on his kitchen floor, with his back against the refrigerator, drinking a hot cocoa cappuccino. A truly delicious drink. It blends the best of hot cocoa and cappuccino into possibly the best hot drink that has ever existed on the mortal plane. The cats were still going at it outside, and he looked up to the clock on his rice cooker. It was 1:12 am. He still had a boner for the ages. And he was still crazy hot. But at least the cocoa cappuccino tasted good. He dropped down to the ground, and rolled out of the way, then opened the refrigerator door. He took out an apple, a banana, some kimchi, and Parmesan cheese. That’s all he had in there. He got up, and took a jar of chestnut honey. He had brought it back from Italy with him, but hadn’t tried it yet. He opened the jar, savoring the popping noise of the lid’s first removal. It smelled delicious. He looked down at the banana, the apple, and the kimchi. None of those options seemed to lend themselves to chestnut honey. Sagremor had always been a big believer in the fact that fortune favors the bold, so he decided to be bold. He sliced the apple into thin strips, and dipped them into the honey. It was delicious. His boner got a little bigger. He then sliced the banana, and dipped that in the honey, but it wasn’t as good. He put the kimchi back into the refrigerator.

Satiated by the honey and cocoa cappuccino, Sagremor lugged his swollen belly back to his bedroom. The cats seemed to have finished their business, but now there was a vampire floating outside his window wanting to be let in. He closed the curtains and dropped back down into his bed.

Sagremor dreamt of being a Power Ranger. He was a strange checkered, flannel looking color Ranger. He kept trying to take the lead, but the Red Ranger wouldn’t let him, so they fought, but the Red Ranger won. Sagremor told the others they should fight again, and do a best 2 out of 3, but they wouldn’t listen. It was frustrating because he knew if they battled again he would win this time.

A cat’s yowl woke him up. Dammit! Those cats had started up again. He leaned over to his window and peaked out, but couldn’t see any cats. A naked man wearing a little red coat and a straw hat looked up at Sagremor from the street. He only had one eye. He leaned back into his pillow, and shut his eyes. This night wouldn’t end, and neither would his boner. He needed to wash the espresso out of his system somehow….how do drug people get over being high? He walked back into his kitchen, and got out a bottle of Woodford Reserve Kentucky Bourbon, Jack Daniel’s, and Amarone grappa from a low cupboard. He filled a coffee mug with a few pours of each liquor drink, and downed it in one go. Ha! The combined power of 3 different whiskey drinks should be enough to counteract the espresso though he seemed to have burnt off his esophagus in the process. Everything has a price, they say. He sat down on his armchair, directly across from the refrigerator in his kitchen/dining room/living room/really small room thing. His stomach felt like crap, and everything between his mouth and liver hurt. He leaned back out to the refrigerator, and drank some Kagome fruit/veggie juice straight from the carton while his mother’s ghost lambasted his manners. He felt refreshed. He sat back down in the chair, and closed his eyes.

beep. beep. Beep. BEEP BEEEP BEEEEPPP!!!

Sagremor’s alarm tore him from sleep sweet embrace with the subtlety or a car horn. He dragged himself from the chair, and tripped over a juice carton as he stumbled his way into his room. He looked back at the spilt juice, but decided the annoying noise took precedence. He picked up the alarm and fumbled with it until he found the “off” button. It was 6:25am. He ran back to the kitchen, and picked the carton up then stuck it in the fridge. He lifted the carpet and threw it on top of the spilt juice, then walked back into his room. No way he was running this morning. He re-set the alarm to 7:30 and dropped back into his bed. Without even covering himself—

beep. beep. Beep. BEEP BEEEP BEEEEPPP!!!

Sagremor’s alarm snatched him from slumber’s saccharine hug with the subtlety of a rifle shot. He rolled off his bed, and slammed his knee on his dresser’s drawer knob as he reached for the alarm clock. He picked up the howling device and fumbled with it until he found the “off” button. His heels hurt with every step; they weren’t oiled yet. He limped, and dragged himself to the kitchen and opened the fridge. All his bananas and apples were gone….He drank some milk straight from the carton while his mother’s voice cursed his poor manners. The kitchen smelled like fruit juice and wet carpet. Sagremor went into his shower room to brush his teeth, but knocked his toiletry stand over by accident. He sighed, and just turned the tap on and showered. 15 minutes later he was out the door and on the way to work. As he walked to the station he devised a new modus operandi for the future.

F&’#k espresso. Drink normal f$%&ing coffee instead.