The King’s Dick

I’m heading down for a coffee at this cafe called The King’s Dick

It’s a good name for a cafe, isn’t it?

The King’s Dick.

If I ever see a place called John’s Cafe, I know it’s not gonna be good. Cafes have to have weird fucking names. If it’s called Gobknobbers, I know it’s gonna be good.

I generally don’t buy coffee out. I drink long black cocks at home instead cos a coffee in Melbourne these days is eight fucking dollars.

But I ran out today. I reckon a mouse has been getting into my sack. I thought I saw one scooting around the house before. And the fucker was fast — far too fast for a mouse. It’s the fucking caffeine, that fuck.

So I’ve ordered, and I’m waiting now, and I’m scrolling to see if NATO has become a real boy yet and entered talks with Russia, but it’s like waiting for Santa Claus to start his OnlyFans, so I sigh and close my phone.

And there’s this homeless bastard muttering to himself.

He’s always outside the King’s Dick. He’s got fucking well-washed blonde hair, too, like Fabio, and it pisses me off cos I think if he can afford Head and Shoulders, surely he can afford two thousand bucks a month for a tiny room in a…