Or royal. Not putting on airs royal. Royal blue is putting on airs blue, like why does it have to announce that it's royal? Just be royal. Thing is, if you are royal, it should be obvious, and it shouldn't need you tooting your own horn about it. That gay guy doesn't toot his own horn (no, he's got a boyfriend for that. Heyo!) Purple is royal without walking up to you and saying My mother fucked a prince, you know. Fuck you, royal blue, I say.

Another thing I like about blueberry muffins is even the crap ones taste okay. Not that I was looking for a crap blueberry muffin. But I got to say, if I ended up in the supermarket, again, and all I could find was one of those packages of five mini blueberry muffins, that would be fine. Me, I prefer my muffins a little more fluffy, a little more buttery. Those ones in the supermarket, they're basically cake. But what's good about them, and the reason I'll go for them, is they don't over-tart you on the blueberry part. Some folks say that's cause they're not real blueberries. I say, fuck some folks, I like 'em.

Cause some blueberry muffins have a lot going for them, big and buttery, fluffy, and you open 'em up and the steam comes out and you're thinking if this was a two-dollar whore I'd be willing to pay four, god damn it! But then you bite in and the cook got a little too enthusiastic with the really fresh really plump real blueberries. And fella, those are tart. Now, like I said, I like all blueberry muffins. So I'm not going to throw this whore out the sack just cause she gave me some lip. And fact is, sometimes I'm in the mood for a little lip. But not too often. I'm just saying, in for a penny, like they say, so if the blueberries are too tart, I concentrate on the muffin.

Hey, picture a faggot concentrating on the muffin. Priceless.

So I went for a walk, looking for a blueberry muffin. I've been to cafes all up and down this street, looking for muffins, but this time I was thinking: strange muffin. Uncharted territory. I took a left where I usually take a right. Then I took a right when I felt like I should’ve taken a left. Saw some houses. Saw some buildings. Morning was escaping, and I was afraid I'd have to end up with an afternoon muffin. Which ain't the end of the world-- a bad muffin at 1 is better than a good nothin at 9, I always say. I'd even get that tattooed, in purple, on my ass, if tattoos and purple and putting writing on your ass wasn't for whores and queers.

Finally found a place. Looked alright from the outside. Windows were kinda dirty, but let me ask you a question, would you rather have a chef good at muffins, or good at windows? Alright then. I walked in, smelled the place up. Hippie perfume. Coffee. I looked around. Bunch of hippies. I saw more facial hair than anything else. Not even sure if all of it was on males. Some of those females looked pretty rough. No wonder so many hippies take it up the chocolate highway.

Stepped up to the counter, and asked if they had blueberry muffins. Fella's hair was all clumped and matted, like one of those afristarians. Or whatever. He said maybe. He said we got muffins, man, and tea. I tell you this, I was polite, Maybe my nose was all wrinkled up, maybe I looked like I smelled stinky hippie all over the place, but I was polite. I said I'd just like a blueberry muffin, if you got 'em.

So he sorta smirks at me. And he says sure. And he hands me one. And I say how much. And he says eat that, pay what you want. So I did. And I was going to. But you know what? I've been sitting here for about three hours now, and everything's turned purple. It's kinda fuckin pretty.