And we henceforth generate more butangera memories. Massive thanks to HTGOF, who is presently riding a gondola, critiquing nude male statues, and slurping spaghetti all at the same time somewhere in Europe for bringing to the present consciousness the wonderful concept of being a butangera, because truly no term so expressedly illustrates the shrillness and general major karindihan of them butangeras more than butangeras.
It was in the early 2000 when Callistus and I were gorging ourselves with everything we could stuff ourselves with in Don Henrico’s. This was the time when I didn’t care about things like gallbladder, stones, and gallbladder stone pains. The best thing to eat there, of course, are the buffalo chicken wings washed in murky ranch dressing. In came two female koreans who stopped by our table, bent over so their faces were near our bucket of chicken wings, and pointed at the food and in high-pitched, bad English said, “What that? That good? That good?!?”
In our heads: Yes, and you now have your spittle on it. Here, have some, or better yet, you can have it all! Here! Eat the chicken wings! Eat the fucking chicken wings!!!