You think I live in a shithole (Durham, NC). Think twice.

I was delighted to find a friend of mine (waves and wires) write a post about what Durham, that godforsaken town in no-man’s land North Carolina, has to offer. Sure thing, we don’t have your Guggenheims, Mets, and other tourist-catchers. Nor do we have a trashy red bridge, a phallic Empire State Building, or one of those shabby State Capitols that adore many American cities. But, and here it comes you fuckin’ geniuses: we have so much more. There are tons of things which make Durham one of the most attractive goddamn places to live. And I’m not talking about the slutty Duke-chicks that hunt the bars on Thursday and Friday nights on Main and 9th (although this can very well constitute a definite plus).

I am talking about the more profound things in life. Food and traffic jams. For the latter, there are practically none of these. Far are my days in the overcrowded subways in Frankfurt, Paris or New York. Far are the days when I got mad at some fat-assed bitch that couldn’t properly handle her car. Whenever you drive around in Durham county, you don't have to surrender your sanity. Okay, granted, there’s hell lot of green around here. Like totally too much. Forests cover certainly up to 95% of the country. But beside being gorgeous (at times – not so much like a hot blonde on the sidewalk, for sure, but not that bad either), it very effectively erases jams.
The second, certainly most important point in favor of ole’ fucking Durham (besides the insane great weather forecast) is the local food. Now for the junk food gourmet that I am, this is heaven. Heaven. I’ve got it all, and more I could ever have asked for. Pulled Pork Vinegar BBQ Sandwiches at my heart’s desire (and stroke, at some point); BBQ Spare Ribs by the Hog; Honey Chicken Wings that drip the sauce right along your fingers onto your pants; the Best Burgers in whole goddamn America with no less than a pound of meat, covered with everything green, yellow and red there is; Mexican food that would even make that other fag, Ricky Martin, blush (he’s not Mexican, is he?).
And you’ve got all of this and more at an average of less than 10 fuckin’ bucks. Yep, you got it right, ten bucks or less. Now, there’s no BBQ joint whatsoever in Boston or DC that could possibly beat that. Plus I got to eat on the terrace under the Carolina sunshine. Plus the chicks start to wear really, really short skirts starting late February. Plus, they are Southern girls – blonde, hot, and tremendously stupid.

Now if you’re not already packing and preparing to move down South, bro, than there’s something seriously wrong with you…