a big city (sorry: World metropolis) has many invaluable benefits.
Apart from the fact that his vocabulary is constantly expanding [("Ciken PS (NO Dioksin)" as my man of the kebab from the corner via billboard wants an assurance], we also learn to keep his urges in check.
be developed that is despite the fact that the current thaw in the drab town of scattered mainly strategically Roll Split heaps and early winter brings to the fore discarded dog shit, but for some reason erotic ambitions will be helped you quickly.
For it zaps in sleepless nights, the television landscape, provides on the regional channel Tom's always the same dreadful sight:
cropped vollhorstige steroid stallions with tribal tattoos mate seemingly made entirely of polyethylene-made make-up accidents with pneumatic monster horns.
And that's not all you will end up over the next 10 minutes, two- or three times in the same program that provides always the same sight: the loathsome couple pimpert in exactly the same position, seemingly for hours so devotedly as mechanical rabbit liable to himself, as it would apply to earn an even auszulobende golden tail sash.
question is, who uses such a tragedy seriously as a weighting issue. The Michelin man?
Once you have an appetite then, the Serbian offer for me to snack around the corner, which lures its customers with an impressive teaser.
So you enter the store and orders the owner of the coveted red-white sausage with french fries, just to on an oval porcelain plate a veritable feast to be served in crispy and golden brown.
So far, so good. One should not only make the mistake of trying to eat the whole thing. Already
the first bite, one expects to get offers internal bleeding. So far I'm
, with sausage and chips could actually make any moderately talented man cooking something wrong. But this brave man has developed in this non-existent actually discipline a championship, which put me in awe of my hat from the head and fled from the store can be.
Unfortunately I did not then, for one stomach was hanging around, where you could easily confuse him with my testicles. So I choked
this elegantly served accumulation of feces actually completely down and fought the rest of the evening with persistently recurrent vomiting.
The ideal addition to this taste field damage would actually still one of the plörrigen, have been left Germany for good reason hard to find Berlin beers.
If you look now at the held not possible renaissance of krakigen Grunzstiefels which the 1.FC Kaiserslautern zusammenstolpert straight again and the one the fun of football right now completely cast out, you come to a logical conclusion: if you have the
wants to give up lust, gluttony, alcohol and superficial pleasures, and must be: what prevent a really still thinking of going into a monastery?
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