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.

Monday, May 25, 2015


This being a holiday, my roommate is at home, rather than slaving in the saltmines of local gubmint. Which means several things, among them that I shall not spend much time here myself -- she's a non-smoker, and you know what those people are like -- plus trash on the telly starting at an early hour. While I despise the tacky reality shows of which she is so fond, I will concede that watching white people do stupid things and misbehave can be entertaining for a Cantonese person.

See, that's one of the reasons that they don't mind tourists flocking in to Chinatown.
Free entertainment. Street theatre. Crazy white folk.
That's a cabbage, idiot.

It also means that I shall hear things, which, taken out of context, paint a startling and peculiar picture.

Two sofar:

"Happy monkey dance, happy monkey dance!"

"You are not supposed to know of us; I am a pee-ninja."

That second one was because I mentioned that I had not realized that she was using the bathroom. It startled me, and meant an adjustment on my part. A gentleman does not interfere with a woman's time behind that door. Not, you understand, purely for chivalric reasons; we also would rather NOT know what people of that gender do in there.

When one lives with a Cantonese person, one must assume that unusual thoughts will be voiced. That's just the way it is. They wake up with electrical sparks in their heads.

Somewhere along the line she found the opportunity to inform no one in particular, à propos of nothing, and purely rhetorically, that her brain is so big and huge that it's delicious.

Another thing she said:

"It's a throw-back to Biblical times; white folks think that edible things can kill you."

This was about Caucasian neuroses concerning food. Not me, because I'm quite normal, but the rest of all of us whities. It turns out that we fear food.
I don't know why that is. I tried explaining that when we were crossing the prairies long ago, often our wagons would be attacked by gluten, animal protein (especially red meat), and refined flour and sugar, which made a deep-seated fear of good things to eat instinctive in our kind. The only thing that didn't threaten us on our long trek was tuna. Vast herds of canned tuna placidly roamed the veld, and made no sudden movements when our Conestogas lumbered into view.

We worship the canned tuna; it is comforting.

Her response was that I was nuts.

A little nik-nik mind!

White person.

It's going to be a long day. I need to smoke my pipe. And get away from this Cantonese woman who is wide awake, fully stimulated, and uttering statements that baffle and confound.

You know where I'll be.

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