Fuck Imma vom writing this post because I have to look at the above picture. Plus it’s going to be on the start page of my Chrome for weeks now.
I was in LA recently, and on Sunday I went with Tinx and DJ Deer and Daniel to the Brentwood Farmer’s Market. We were a hot mess from partying till 4:30 am the night before. But the morning wasn’t going to get any better.
DJ Deer: [fiddling on phone] I’m going to check in for my flight now.
Me: [Hurting from the effort of small talk] Good idea.
DJ Deer: Wait, what’s today’s date?
DJ Deer: I mean the DATE.
Daniel: The 27th.
DJ Deer: I did something really stupid.
So it turns out that he had booked his flight for the following week, which is just silly because that wasn’t even the right MONTH. While he freaked out about that, my eyes were sparkling because the Brentwood farmer’s market is one of those where there are proper food stalls, not just bullshit veggies.
Tinky chose pupusas. Basically a fatty quesadilla, but with the stuff actually incorporated into the masa. Here look:
Superb…looking. I didn’t taste it, since my attention was solely focused on my lamb gyro. Not content with one huge serving of food, I asked Daniel if he wanted to also share a falafel platter. He said yes, of course, and this is precisely why I keep him around.
My gyro was perfection. The lamb shards were crisp on the edges, the tzatziki was cool and creamy, and the whole thing was damn near impossible to pick up, which is the mark of a good gyro. It replenished whatever vitamins and minerals I had lost the night before and I was feelin’ ACE!
Onwards! I flipped open the falafel plate container and handed it to Daniel to hold in his lap (we were plopped down on a curb) so I would have two hands: one to pick up and dip the falafel, the other to make perfect salad bites with proper proportions of olive, feta, lettuce, and onion.
The falafel was a little bit dry, and besides, nothing beats Bella Pita fresh-fried falafel. I ate maybe a fourth of it and said “I’m done with that” to Daniel.
But then I remembered I had to take my Metamucil pills (don’t pretend like travel doesn’t gum up your insides too) which, on account of their horseyness, must be washed down with food. So I re-flipped open the container and started stabbing at it while Daniel held it for me.
Olive, feta, lettuce, onion, eyeball.
Wait, two eyeballs.
I screamed EEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAEEEEERHHHH and ran fifteen feet away.
Tinky also started screaming out of confusion, and DJ Deer a little bit too.
“There’s A! … BAD! … THING!” I cried.
Daniel started pivoting back and forth, not knowing what to do or what I was talking about.
“DON’T MOVE! DO NOT! DO NOT MOVE! DON’T MOVE!” I shrieked.
Just then, a random man walked through our cluster of chaos, looked into the salad, and said, “Oh that’s not good.”
“You’ll get a refund for sure,” he continued. “Better that they know so they can fix it,” and sauntered off.
WHO CARES MOTHERFUCKER? At that point, the slug had crawled up and over the lip of the container and was hanging by a centimenter of its own slime.
Daniel started moving again, making it swing back and forth like a pendulum.
“DON’T! MOVE! DO NOT! DO NOT!” we all screamed at him.
Finally it plopped down on the ground and DJ Deer ran in like a paparazzo, took a picture, and ran away again.
“Should I…throw this away?” Daniel asked, PTSD-style.
“YES!” I yelled, and experienced the most massive shudder from my toes up to my head.
Ugh. Terrible. How did we not notice it the entire time we were eating it? And did I stab it with my fork, and thus did I imbibe slug fluids? What if I stabbed it through its sexual organs, and what if I imbibed its SEXUAL FLUIDS GAHHHHHH.
These thoughts are not productive nor realistic. I gotta stop.
To wash the slug semen out of our mouths, we went to Cafe Luxxe. It is a legit coffee joint where people come from miles and miles away. Their baristas always win foam competitions and stuff. Indeed, the heart-flower did soothe my horror-struck psyche a little bit.
And then we impulse-shopped Alfajor cookies. They had just 5 ingredients: flour, butter, sugar, cream, and salt.
Just looking at them, you can already tell their texture. Crumbly in the most toe-curling way:
The center was not chocolate like you’d think if you were a dumbass and didn’t read what I just wrote. It was a caramel goo which was doggone outrageous.
So with that, my psychological slug-shaped wounds were healed. But then fucking DJ Deer uploaded the picture to Facebook with the caption “Slimy the Salad Slug” and we looked at it (why!) and were traumatized all over again.
Hopefully dead and in hell
Otherwise, at the Brentwood Farmer’s Market
Gretna Green Way, Brentwood, LA
11975 San Vicente Blvd
Brentwood, CA 90049