It's no lie that I hate the fresas (thanks, Bianca!). You know the wealthy as fuck tourists from Mexico City who come down to Texas and instantly begin to act like Euro-Trash, tossing cash around like they're PacMan Jones, treating the staff wherever they go like shit and just existing as all around examples of failed humanity.
I used to think it was the book store that got the brunt of the bullshit from these fuckers but after hanging out with fellow slaves to the Galleria (even some who used to work there a decade ago) I've found I'm not alone. We all fucking hate these people and their endless amounts of cash and excessive demands (no, cockstain, season five of Lost is not out yet) and happiness at watching their children wreck shit while screaming out for one another at the top of their lungs. But, I met one guy who made me realize maybe all the mini-fresas aren't just emo-manga-Twihard-dorks (most insane requests are made at the behest of the litte brats at home). Some of them actually know good shit. This is what I got asked for while the only other punk rocker employed at my store stood by as our jaws simultaneously dropped and turned into big Charlie Brown grins.
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