Warming up with a Streak for God, they hit every Sunday service possible, from Bob Condum's evangelical whoopee-do (nailed by a girl with beautiful waist-length strawberry hair who galloped through the noxious tent just as two dozen of Bob's peroxide blond minrobed Saviourettes were garnisheeing the weekly paychecks of a hundred destitute Pueblo natives), to the Episcopal church, where Father Dagwood Whipple was so flustered by the bearded grasshopper thundering through his service rattling a tambourine that he tripped on his robe, tumbled against the lectern, opening a thirteen-stitch forehead gash, and dropped his twelve-pound Bible into the front pew, squarely atop a wealthy parish benefactor's purple noggin.

So unless you're from French Canadia or something, I suggest you stop calling someone on ice skates who talks like he got beer foam coming outta his nose a manly type, cause he ain't.

[…] the saviour is no longer the volition of the full-grown spirit of Man, the Free Willer of Necessity, sword in hand, but simply Love […]

Disgusting, unfriendly, rotten, fucking sordid place with heaps of unfriendly, bastardish, rude, dangerous, mother-fucking assholes either hassling you with their shit or looking for a fight. Dakar is pure, sheer rot. I HATE the place.