CHICO, CA – Patrons of Panama Bar Cafe are in for a special treat with the introduction of a startling new garnish. Drink queefing has come to the Northern Valley, freshly imported from our neighbors beside The Bay.
Driving this new fad is Panama bartender Jessie Hughes, her slim frame deceptively harboring a “metric fuckton of fluff”, she beams proudly.
After filling an initial order, Hughes squats approximately three inches above the glass so that her inner labia lightly tickle its rim, and with a flex and a grunt she windsocks a near-solid emission into the drink, giving it a “distinctly savory and memorable” flavor, Hughes says. Also described as “spicy” and “pungent”, it brings new meaning to the old soldier’s adage, “Rather a barmaid’s noxious trench than the battlefield’s.”
Drink queefing, also known as “poff topping”, originated as a simple prank, but has since been requisitioned by the puckered, supercilious crowds of San Francisco. From there, it gradually spread north between the luscious crevice of the Butte region and into the mouths of Panama’s patrons.
“It’s totally cool because it makes bottom-shelf liquor delicious by comparison. You can’t taste a bitter beer after the warmth of compressed twat fart hits your tongue.” Hughes coughs to push a blockage along. “I normally don’t even tell people. Their next drink is that much better for not having been queffed upon and they don’t even know why. We’ve had a few complaints, but it’s easier to have our pussy-desperate regulars threaten those customers than to not queef in beer, at least while I’ve got this much intestinal distress.” Hughes punctuates with a groaning fart that necessitates a bathroom visit before continuing.
When pressed for a recipe to generate so much vaginal flatulence, Hughes’ trademark piss-warm sense of self-satisfaction showed across her face. “Well, that’s a special stew of my own. I will say that tears between my intestinal lining and my stomach are key to the mix. Honestly, it’s worth having so much shit for blood.”
Some customers, however, do not appreciate the change:
“At first I thought it was a prank, maybe they had a sound app back there on an iPhone or something, but she puts it [the glass] down on the table and I see what looks like pepper flecks in there. I sip it, spit it out and go, ‘I ain’t drinking this!’ when suddenly these two handicaps chase me out.” Says Peter Jones, who once considered himself a welcome regular. “I don’t know where they got this girl, but she tastes like she needs a doctor, and soon.”
Stacy Kerrigan, a 22-year-old college student on a budget who once favored Panama’s affordable appetizers and strong mixes, adds: “You can hear her pussy from outside. It sounds like someone revving a go-cart under dirty laundry. And when she walks, it’s like someone’s rubbing sandpaper together and smells like burnt fish scales.”
But Panama owner Kyle Meyers doesn’t intend to change anything soon. “We always had a lot of trouble wit’ ‘coons figurin’ their way in the bar and dyin’ in our ice box. But now, they don’t come to 40 yards of the place. I ain’t been outsmarted in weeks!” He slurred competently. “I tried to teach it to the other girls, but they ain’t got cavernous enough cervix.”
Sales are steady, says Meyers, noting “broke college kids keeps us afloat, anyway.”
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