French Fry Frivolity
It was inquired of us, Jill and myself, by a large and rather obnoxious red sign if our fry gauges were low. We were just out side of the qauint little hamlet of Purcell on our way to Ardmore to fetch the most wretchedly delicious tacos available to the whole of Adam and Eve’s children.
Despite it’s rather presumptuous manner the sign did stir something in us and we agreed; our fry gauges were indeed low. So we stopped and obtained the golden fried treats in their red box with it’s circus lining of white and yellow. If delicious had an onimonipia to describe itself as an adjective it would be the sound of Jill and I voraciously consuming these tender crispy, and salty epicurian delights.
