Bode-FUCK

I fucking hate bodegas. I always walk into them because all I need is toilet paper (I'm lactose intolerant) or a goddamn lollipop so I can look slutty but of COOUUURRSSSSSSEEE there is a $15 minimum for cards. NO, Mohammed and/or Guillermo, I do not want to spend fifteen dollars in your shitty bodega. By the way, your cat is walking around pooping on all the ramen packets.

Say you're going on a hot date with some sexual babe named Seth Moneybagsgoldsilverbergstein (note: Seth M. will pop up a lot and you should get to know him now because he is my dream Jew husband. He is an astronaut-zoo-keeper-massage-therapist who dabbles in attorneying and brain surgery) and you get your period. You need a tampon! Or a pad...if you were homeschooled and your name is Beth or something.

You go into a bodega walking like you shit your pants because you shoved some receipt you found in your purse into the pathway of your vagina's demon waterfall. Time is running out! All you want is a little pack of tampons (or pads, Beth). Five dollars! You put them on the counter and hand Rogelio your debit card.

FUCK NO!

Punjab is so not having it. He throws your debit card into your bloated period face and yells.

FIFTEEN DOLLA MINIMUM!

FINE, Eduardo, I'll also buy this fucking Dora the Explorer lunch box and this six pack of beer (because assdouche bodegas never have hard alcohol). Then Sancho gives you some douchey smile and runs your card, and it only takes him about five million years to print the receipt.

FINALLY, Ernesto gives you your shit and you prance your ass off to the fancy restaurant that Seth is def paying for. On the way, you do that classy ass thing where you make sure no ones looking and give yourself a tampon injection while trying to make it look like you're just itching your asshole.

So basically, I blame bodegas for forcing me to itch my asshole in public. But at least the hobos get off on it. They deserve something, I guess.