Cheetos & Prostitutes

I was cycling home from work the other day and I saw this prostitute on the corner ahead. As if the idea of getting intimate with a hooker (can I call it intimate?) wasn’t tantalizing enough, this one was gorging her hole (mouth) with a bag of Cheetos. She started hollering something as I was approaching, and since I was the only one within ear-shot, she was obviously hollering at me. To avoid her, I tried to get to the opposite side of the street, but there wasn't a break in the on-coming traffic. To make things worse, there was a decent incline in the street that slowed me down considerably.

My plan was simple—avoid eye contact and keep cycling. Though, just like a pedophile near a playground, I had to look. She was wearing a raggedy, tight White Sox jersey that had been cut off so high that her mammaries were hanging out. Pancakes. Her spandex cycling shorts were so tight that her camel was giving me the middle finger. Which is strange since they only have two toes. Cheetos orange made up her face and fingers.

As I cycled passed, she screamed, “Hey sexy white boy! You want some fine chocolate milk?” She’s quite the talent, as she obviously read my mind and discovered that I indeed had a craving for chocolate milk around lunch time. Fortunately, that craving had passed, and the milk that she was offering was probably way out of date. Poor lady. Maybe I just care too much about Small-Business-America, but how does she expect to get any clients with her face and fingers covered in Cheetos grease? I thought about stopping and offering her a wet-wipe (yes, I occasionally carry wet-wipes. I’m a dog-walker. Lots of dog poo), but maybe her clients have a cheetos fetish? Crunch and wipe lady. Crunch and wipe.