Slap leaves Isaan, bound for the grease ridden shores of Italy. Slap's quest for well prepared fare has indeed led him halfway around the fucking globe.
Slap arrives in Italy and immediately slips over on the pavement. This place is highly fucking lubricated, Slap muses.
Slap thinks Italy is rather easy on the eye after having spent the last decade surrounded by rusty corrugated iron fencing. Slap is eager to breach the walls and locate a fine dining emporium.
Slap can't help but notice that Italy is full of hi-so gooks. Slap continues his quest unperturbed.
Slap zeros in on a quaint little bar come restaurant. Slap notes the name. Tempi Felici. Slap thinks that sounds a bit like Temple of Fellatio. Slap decides that this is an appropriate spot to dine.
Slap takes in the decor. Slap has yet to see any sign of fellatio present. Slap is decidely unimpressed with the slanderous scrawl on the restaurant's facade.
Slap scritinizes the condiments. Slap thinks aboout leaving.
Slap opts to stay seated and orders an orange juice. Slap observes the presentation of the beverage with interest. Slap takes a pensive sip. It tastes like water.
Slap considers that since he is on Italian soil, the main course should comprise of a huge, fuck-off English Breakfast. Slap doesn't much care for pasta flecked with human grease and armpit hair.
The last days of Rome arrive plated before slap. Toast - from 7/11. Bacon - 50% fat. Sauasge - a fucking hotdog. Egg - a bloody campaign in medieval Milan.
Slap pays bill. Slap doesn't tip. Slap is sick and tired of being buggered by foodstuffs.
Slaps runs away from Italy whilst telling it and all its residents to fuck off.