(a prose apostrophe)
It’s Friday night, dude. You know what that means. Meditation! Nothing better after a long week at work than centering your spirit through some wicked peaceful meditation techniques and then banging a chick’s aura.
Don’t worry, man. I got it covered. I invited the ladies over to party tonight. I’ll play some sweet tuneage and set the thermostat to one-oh-five. It’s gonna get hot and steamy. Bikram Yoga, bitches! We’re going to do some deep stretching.
You’re totally right. We have to pregame with some blazing. Let’s light this vanilla-lavender incense up. Oh yeah, that’s some legit aromatic herbs. I’m so focusing my seven spiritual points right now. Babes totally dig aligned chakras, am I right?
Whatever. You’re just jealous because you can only find six.
All right, calm down. I’m just yanking you. Anyway, man, I’m like seriously going to chug fifteen cups of Assam tea. My body will be so freaking hydrated. You know I brew like a BAMF. I break infusers wherever I go. Hey-oh!
Dude, dude, dude, I just thought of a pick-up line. “Girl, you look so good, I’d like to stick you in a mug and pour boiling water on you.”
Okay, you’re right. It needs work. But you know, you don’t need pick-up lines for Allie. She always asks for green tea, but if you slip her some black she goes crazy.
Hell no, I didn’t spend the night with her Friday. After we were done sipping, she wanted to cuddle and chat about the implications of our sharing of the tea in the wa-kei-sei-jaku principles. I just wanted to sleep, so I booked it while she was trancing out and left a bag of Irish Breakfast on the pillow. It’s my calling card.
Okay dude, I know it wasn’t a bro-dhisattva thing to do. I don’t need you lecturing on the Middle Way. You brewed Lipton, dude. That’s some messed up shit. But I’m really proud of how you’ve stayed clean. Six long months, man. I’m not going to cry. I am not going to cry.
No, no, dude. Stay away from that Cozy Chamomile. Remember when Jimmy infused a half pound? He was so relaxed he went into a mild coma. We had to get his stomach pumped.
Fine. I didn’t technically help him and I might have technically force fed him more after he passed out and technically written “If you try to aim for it, you are turning away from it” on his ass cheeks. But I was trying to impress a cougar.
Yeah, that redheaded one. Tina, I think. The one with the cleft lip. I was all game that night, man. Like picture “Taming of the Wild Ox” by Zen master Shien. I was the boy seeking enlightenment, and she was the ox.
Bro, be mature. I know that doesn’t sound right, but she was a hot ox, and I totally found enlightenment. Multiple times. Except it was for real and not a drawing.
Yeah, she was a complete freak. After she put her kids to bed, she pulled this box of her closet. I’d never seen so many kinds of Red Oolong tea before. I was a little intimidated. So we steeped once, right? And before I could even ask if she wanted to re-steep, she was already heating up the kettle again. Boom! We infused four times that night. She wanted to go five, but my leaves were worn out. She gave me a few pointers on preheating and told me, “Better luck next time.”
Tonight? I’m going for Cindy. I hear she’s into some kinky Far Eastern chants.
Right. I know. But as Master Lao Tzu says, “We shape clay into a pot, but it is the emptiness inside that holds whatever we want.” My clay pot’s emptiness holds Orange Pekoe grade tea or higher. My loin’s emptiness holds babes.
About Christopher Frugé
