My Tale of Mystery and Intrigue in a Godforsaken Town They Call Bakersfield: Over the years, I cannot begin to tell you how many times good, decent folks have come up to me and asked me to post something that could prove to them that there have actually been people who sincerely want to be in Bakersfield, California.
Well, I knew right away this was gonna be one tough assignment - but I've had them before. So, I put aside my long-held plans to binge-watch old episodes of “My Mother the Car,” and began my fateful journey. And my friends, it was a journey that would take me to places no self-respecting, decent human being should ever find themselves. That’s right, I’m talking about Bakersfield.
Then, one chilly and windy, dark Bakersfield night - I got lucky. No, you perverts, not THAT kind of lucky! I was walking down one of those small, winding, little Bakersfield side streets, when I came upon this funky, little jazz club. It was late - and I knew it was late - because I had looked at my watch, which told me it was late. And because I had just set my watch, I accepted that as fact.
Well anyway, I walked inside and stepped right up to the bar and ordered and ordered myself a Rusty Nail. Why, a Rusty Nail you ask? Because there was a rusty nail laying the floor – I figured it was a sign. And then, sure enough – it happened – she walked by, didn’t say a word, but gave me a slight glance and slipped this into my pocket…I had what I wanted – time to go home!
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