Old Monkey on Ukraine, Offshoring and His Fantastic Life in the USA

[Philadelphia, 12/29/16]

For my 100^th birthday, I took a coal fired bus from my suburban grass hut to celebrate by myself at the penthouse café on the 800^th floor of Vung Tau’s newest skyscraper. To enter, you must be strip searched by a bearded tranny who stares, hard, into your asshole, but it’s worth it. How many more years do I have left?

Since a cappuccino here is a cool 100 bucks, I’m only ordering a black without sugar for $49.99. Having walked barefoot all over Vung Tau for four decades, I’ve become something of a local celebrity, though with less than flattering nicknames. Most often, I’m called Old Monkey, with Sir sometimes added for more amusement.

“Sir Old Monkey, you going to the zoo?”

“Cemetery, fuckhead.”

“You’ve been saying that for years!”

Approaching my table, some metrosexual pussy with hair dyed blonde says, “May I?”