These Food Courts. The normalized behavior. Candy-colored stage-sets with staff in the various company livery. Insistent piped music.
A question: Is Singapore the
global capital of the false eyelash? Does some other place on earth surpass?
Soup Spoon's range starts at $6 up to $8 and more for some kind of meal-deal.
Ordering over the pre-heated pots, then follow to the register. Three dozen entries on the screen.
Re-orchestrated and arranged old favorites like a biological virus everywhere you bend an ear. Sweet Lucy Brown big finale lifting the floor tiles. Only those new to the experience hear possibly; the remainder immune, inoculated with anti-bodies.
Crystal Jade My Bread one corner. Itcho Sushi opposite, with staff in their Mama's Kitchen get-up. Tight olive green military headscarfs, long-stringed aprons. Busy and alert clearing tables, filling water glasses. Idleness intolerable.
In front of the shop they have a large flat-screen carrying a continuous loop of the young CEO of Itacho leading a homely TV Mummy-never-been-fucked type through their food preparation factory. Finest fish selection from ocean depths; surgical dress in the warehouse. Glinting clean samurai knives. Finally made-up Mummy bewitched with a colorful platter of assortments that makes her go Oo-Yum and we never get to learn whether young CEO pokes her.
On fifteen minute rotation—length of the average office break out in the general eating area for those who have chosen not to enter behind lattice-work and rice-paper facade.
Finale an unknown big number to send you packing, brassy forcefulness and stretched notes from the GI type front-man. Drum roll and hard-hat crash.
Soup Spoon's range starts at $6 up to $8 and more for some kind of meal-deal.
Ordering over the pre-heated pots, then follow to the register. Three dozen entries on the screen.
Re-orchestrated and arranged old favorites like a biological virus everywhere you bend an ear. Sweet Lucy Brown big finale lifting the floor tiles. Only those new to the experience hear possibly; the remainder immune, inoculated with anti-bodies.
Crystal Jade My Bread one corner. Itcho Sushi opposite, with staff in their Mama's Kitchen get-up. Tight olive green military headscarfs, long-stringed aprons. Busy and alert clearing tables, filling water glasses. Idleness intolerable.
In front of the shop they have a large flat-screen carrying a continuous loop of the young CEO of Itacho leading a homely TV Mummy-never-been-fucked type through their food preparation factory. Finest fish selection from ocean depths; surgical dress in the warehouse. Glinting clean samurai knives. Finally made-up Mummy bewitched with a colorful platter of assortments that makes her go Oo-Yum and we never get to learn whether young CEO pokes her.
On fifteen minute rotation—length of the average office break out in the general eating area for those who have chosen not to enter behind lattice-work and rice-paper facade.
Finale an unknown big number to send you packing, brassy forcefulness and stretched notes from the GI type front-man. Drum roll and hard-hat crash.
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