For lunch, I’ll frequently patronize Blimpie’s for a Buffalo Chicken sandwich. Inevitably, I’ll whistle “Buffalo Soldier”. Then I’ll replace the profound lyrics of a legendary musician with my asinine words involving a sandwich with hot sauce.
Buffalo Chicken, hot sauce with pickles.
It is a Buffalo Chicken, with some bread but no paprika.
Purchased by MasterCard, brought to my cubicle....
And by then my sandwich is ready and the tune immediately disappears. I guess the point of the story is that Bob Marley is going to rise from the dead and kick my Caucasian ass.
You're going down Kingston style, bitch.
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