The further adventures of an earthbound alien

Hey, boss. You wan? Where you from boss? To which I naturally say I’m from Malaysia. It really screws them up.
“Oh, yeah, I was born there, In KL. I went to this really cool school that focused on the art of the American language. I specialized in honky, 30’s movie talk and Michigander. Where you from, Judy?”
One of the things that Singaporisians are allowed to do is shop. The big shopping area is called Orchard road. (Or as they say “Orcharo”) I think it’s a lot like Vegas, only instead of casinos the street is lined with malls. And at night there are hundreds of people wandering around enjoying the cooler, 90 degree weather.
But as the guide book says, in order to enjoy Singapore at its fullest you have to get down into the local markets. Slide on in there, throw your self on the dirty ground and roll around in the filth that is the floor of the Singapore wet market. (that’s the guide book that went down the garbage chute, where I’m sure it’s enjoying itself as it is slowly devoured by roaches.)

The traditional wet market is the kind of place that could make the average, antiseptic American scream like a little girl, repeatedly. They sell fish, vegetables and meat. The reason they call it a wet market is because every morning they hose all the shit on the floor into the sewer and start over. The charming result is a wet floor all day. The smell is exotic (to be nice) and the overall effect is almost overwhelming. It’s a little like a frat house.
As “G” an I wound our way between the saturated chopping blocks I toyed with the idea of vegetarianism and thanked my good fortune I wasn’t wearing my flip flops. Will I return to the wet market in Little India? Probably not!

Next time: Who you callin' chicken?