Food stamps, food stamps, food stamps! By this time our Ghetto Grocer readers realize that food stamp distributions in Baltimore mean that lowly clerks such as myself must service a veritable midnight ho-train of insane whores, who launch their babies directly into the arms of the maternal grandmother from the rubberized orifice that, in actual fact gives birth to 18 years of crack, booze, heroin and reefer.

Last night one rancid wench walked in, went right to the women’s room, and waited. In came her John, who asked where the women’s room was. After they were done their biodegradable business they left together, him handing her an independence card and telling her his baby’s mama’s pin number.

Then came three pairs of dykes: all with EBT cards, two who had been impregnated by a drone in order to feed the phony man they were with, shopping and grabbing ass around midnight. The most hilarious dyke said to me, “Hey guy, what’s up?” in a false baritone. She had dressed and grown her hair, wore the fitted hat and the clothes necessary to do a pretty effective Kid Rock imitation. We call her Kid Roxy.

There were also the elite welfare mammas who dragged the actual two-year-old meal ticket with them to the market at 2:00 a.m.

These are the devote parishioners of the Holy Church of The God of Things, come to worship. However, in this atheistic matrix, where truth-seeking is reviled as the pursuit of fools and one only believes in inflated currency and lies, if he believes in anything, I think I saw a crack in the shimmering slut armor of materialism.

Among the welfare mammas was a twenty-two year old girl of moderate stature and gentle curves, who, would probably rate a 6 on the standard matrix. Most women of this make, caring only to define themselves by how many men want to delve into their vile defile, and then immediately grow toxically obese on the government subsidies intended for the child’s benefit, dress like strippers when they come to shop for the very food that is destined to ruin their figure.

Not this wench. She took materialism to a whole other level, declining to even put her own DNA on display, but just labeled it instead. She was dressed in expensive designer sweats that were four sizes too large, looking like an oatmeal filled sock shuffling down the aisle in her flip flops—which are essentially the combat boots of the welfare whore. I would have given her points for modesty if she had done nothing but obscure her figure with baggy clothes. However, the saggy clothing she wore was emblazoned with light refracting glitter that could have graced the leather jacket of a 1980s country western singer, which spelled SEXY.

Although it is still important to be regarded as an available and fertile EBT matrix, it is no longer necessary to actually be sexy. One needs only wear a stamp that declares herself to be a wanton beast of the state. I wonder, after seeing this, if the addiction to the gross things of the world has reached its apex, if slut culture is losing its luster already. Or, is wearing the slut brand just a holding pattern, a reprieve from actually having to get in uniform, like a fireman wearing a fire department cap and shirt when off duty?