Alcoholics totally love babies

This morning I went to the post office because I did something bad in my last five or six lives. I continued down to the village, and I had to detour to kill time because the hippie lunch hole wasn’t open yet. This took me past the bus station alcoholics who patrol the payphones for returned change. “Oh, shweet bundle of love,” they slurred, lurching towards me as if to paw the baby passed out in the sack I hang around my neck. The baby woke up, displeased, and we pepper sprayed the living hell out of the alcoholics. A passing police officer smiled and chucked the baby under the chin. “Saved me the trouble,” he said. Then I had an avocado wrap.

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