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