Girley Bar

"this is the life" he said.
He was one of them. Men on the far side of middleage who tuck their
black jack daniels t shirts into the extreamly high waist line of
their 3/4 lenth beige combat shorts. Arched sholders blend into
bolding, chinless wrinkeled, rounded, lose skinned faces. A room full
of aging men with skin like sun-dried wallets and wallets like bulging
crotches. All sat almost lifeless as swarms of taxi-girls hover like
scantely clad Mosquitos circling the colapsed barang cadavers hungry
for the dollars they bleed. This place is death. But they see it
as living.

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