The Curee Shoppe

One day, I was in Manchester. You know, in the really shitty part of the shity. That may have been a typo, but

oh well.

I ended up in Rusholme. The was hyper-pixelated blood everywhere. I could also have sworn I saw slenderman raping Jeff i the corner of my eye. But I'm sure that was just my imagination playing tricks on me. Cause you know, #YoWlOw and all that crap. I was wearing my 'Obey' snepbeck and I could've sworn someone called me 'faggot' but who cares what they think, they don't kno mai storee.

I kept on walking and walking until I eventually reached the 'Curry Mile'. Oh.fuck.

I had to turn back NOW. But my legs couldn't move. My mind was long gone, I was already hypnotised by the smell of putridly, epically shitty, awesome curry.

I had no choice.

I went into the first one I could find.

Darbar

If you want a review of the place, click here. (U fagits.)

I went in. I said:

"Excuse me, could I have a chicken madras, some naan, and some papadums with sweet sauce please?"

"Yes sir, that would be £69 plz."

Did these guys buy from the black market?!?!?1//1!??!!? That was most CERTAINLY, most DEFINITELY, most CERTAINLY, the CHEAPEST, most, INEXPENSIVE, curry EVER.

I handed him the money and waited for him or whoever cooked the curry to finish.

Unexpectedly, M Night Shymalan burst out from the kitchen and the meaning of my existence came to me.

I.WAS.FONE.

After realising this, I thanked him and went back to my home. Only to realise they had mixed up my order.

I did not ask for cat madras.