it’s come to this: cashew fingers and an aperitif to sandwich the spro down the gorge at the studio of the bioluminescent cypriot.
alas, our favorite mid-afternoon haunt for the kind of spro fixes vital to surviving cubicle land has become a dungeon of very, very dark liquid arts. this blog, of course, has a long tradition of needling the fellow publicly when the spro gets po’. consider this a recommence!
wherefore art thine snobby prideful tastes, sarkis?!