At the back of the hill

Warning: If you stay here long enough you will gain weight! Grazing here strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton. And you might like cheese-doodles.
BTW: I'm presently searching for another person who likes cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Wednesday, July 03, 2013


She had a hot beverage, and no one was going to take it away, bitches. Hers. All hers. She had had to fight darn well everyone at the caffeine counter for it, disabling not a few, but now she had it, and she was safe where no one could follow: behind the wainscoting, in the hollow between the walls. She curled her furry tail around her and admired her prize. The steaming pint glass was nearly as tall as she was. Lovingly she gazed up at the rim, planning how to reach the precise angle at which her snout could lean over and take a gulp. First up on the piece of wood, then onto the broken ledge. But it was still too hot.
Better wait. More good things needed to be got.

She had seen those dumb bunny rabbits with their baskets of hot hors d'oeuvres over at the vendor near the stairs. There were several stoats, some felines (including a handsome-looking tomcat with tight TIGHT haunches), a lynx (probably a foreigner), and that rancid Chihuahua that always slobbered at her in between. Fortunately she only shared one class with him. She was certain that a critical reading of Asian American literature was entirely beyond him, he had only signed up for the lectures because he was desperate for nookie. Hah! None of the women in that room, human or bestial, had even the slightest interest in him. He would have had more luck in remedial English, with the bunnies and the blondes! Stupid mutt.


At just the right moment she shot out of the hole, between the table legs, past the stoats -- they looked up startled, maybe they should get her into the track team, damn she was fast -- over the felines and the sexy tomcat, who were too busy ripping apart a deep-fried fieldmouse to pay attention, past the lynx with his cream of wheat, and, with one mighty kick against the ribcage of the stupid Chihuahua, who yelped and whimpered in a blind panic at the unseen assault, cleared the edge of the furthest table. Now the target was within view. A hot basket of Crab Rangoon, with bottles of spicy mustard and Sriracha hotsauce next to the potted plant.

She landed on the counter, composed herself, and walked over to the girl at the register.
"Hello Mabel", she said, "could I please have some of those?" Mabel happily rang up one order, and asked her if she wanted sweet and sour sauce, or thick soy. "Neither, don't you remember that I like spicy?" "Oh yeah", said Mabel, "lots of red and a squeeze of yellow".
Mabel had chided her the last time, giving the opinion that she would not be surprised if someday the weasel's little fuzzy stomach exploded. Only 'mak-sei-go-yan' should eat so much hot sauce. She herself preferred a touch of mayo on Crab Rangoon, along with French fries. Mabel was American born, and a little depraved. Mathilda (the weasel) had seen little miss Mabel (the human) jump into a lobster tank once in Chinatown to arm-wrestle a gigantic New-Englander. She had then left with both of his claws, grinning.
Old man Wong drained the fried objects and dumped them into the paper-lined basket. "Dim-ah, siu-jeh, ho loi m-kin, hah" (hey sis, howzit, long time no see). She politely responded "Wong-sang, nei ho" (hello mr. Wong), before grabbing the basket and taking a running leap off the counter. Same route as before, but now she had the advantage of height. Passed over a table of fifteen watt Christian kids from the Valley, onto the stool where the lynx had sat with his cream of wheat -- the bowl was licked clean, she noticed -- and right next to the tomcat. She wuzzawuzzed his ears quickly, before scooting between the felines and their third mouse cadaver. Everything buffalo style, with blue cheese and celery stalks. They never ate the celery, but occasionally batted it around the floor or hit rabbits with it. The stoats saw her coming and scattered.
She got back to her hiding place in the wall at just the right moment.
The hot beverage had cooled to perfect temperature.
Perched on the ledge, she took a sip.
It was delicious!

An hour later, stuffed and happy, she wandered into Doctor Lee's "introduction to Asian American literature". The Chihuahua looked scared when she took a seat near him, and decided that really, he should sit elsewhere. Anywhere else. Like right next to the short Chinese girl with the bottle bottom glasses. The girl glared at him, grimaced, and swatted him with a rolled up newspaper, hissing "chau kwai mat, hui sei ah nei!". He left and found an empty desk next to the garbage can.

After class was over, Mathilda noticed that the garbage can was overturned. So like a stupid dog. Couldn't resist the temptation! He just had to play with smelly crap. He was probably covered with banana peels and scraps of candied rat. A randy creep, smelling appropriately.
Oh well, at least he hadn't humped any legs during the lecture.
Chihuahuas have no brains, nor any self control.
One of these days he would go too far.
She'd really bite him fiercely.
Scratch his eyes out.
She was waiting.
Any excuse.

Still two more years till she graduated. It would be a long time.
Maybe she might have some fun while she stayed at State.
The school still didn't have any blood sports yet.
Perhaps she should try to get a team going.
The Chinese girls would be perfect.
Especially miss Mabel Wong.
Incredibly fierce.


Back in the nineties I audited a class on Asian American Lit at San Francisco State. No, I wasn't desperate for nookie, do I look like a damned Chihuahua to you? My squeeze-bit at the time was still working on her first degree, and it was lovely meeting her for lunch in the basement of the student union. But the food down there was more than a little strange.
That was where I first ran into 'crab raccoon'. Canned crab meat and cream cheese wrapped in a wonton skin and deep-fried.
Done well, I imagine it can be quite delicious.

I've always liked the ambiance of universities. The virtually deserted libraries, the folding tables out front with totally blinkered activists and idealists, the offensive and rude thug-jugend from a ghastly place with well-deserved inferiority complexes and a chip underneath the ugly scarves on their shoulders, the sweetly shy girl-students on their way to becoming the accounting major who saves civilization, boys who excel in sports, beer, and pizza........
Professors who love their subject, and can't understand why it isn't the most popular course of study in school, why in their day, sir, back in their day.......
Still. Crab Raccoon. I always imagined this to be a masked furball with a mallet, a bib, and a finger-bowl, fastidiously ripping limbs one by one off the boiled beast, cracking them, and dipping the silky white meat into mayonnaise. A veritable San Franciscan among the raccoons, smuggling his bottle of Chardonnay into the student union and sharing it with other animals, in little Dixie cups.
I was rather disappointed.

I would go back, but I no longer have a squeeze-bit, and people might think I was desperate. And there are not nearly enough animals at San Francisco State. Besides, the food in the basement of the student union is probably all vegan or sustainably green shit by now, crab meat is SO destructive of the rainforest, and cream cheese is very white.
I probably wouldn't enjoy it anymore.

And there would be nobody to eat lunch with.

Crab Raccoon. Sriracha hotsauce.
Plus a dab of mustard.

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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.

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