Ibu kota
This city is asking for it.
A gaggle of housewives with all the tired markers of middle-upper affluence—botched nose jobs, comically impractical coiffed hair, more makeup than a circus clown—congregate in an inconveniently large circle obstructing the only open checkout counter at the store.
“No, don’t send your kids there,” one of them screeches. “When Lita sent her kids to that school, they all came out as bookworms. You don’t want your kids to be autistic, do you?”
This city is asking for it.
