At the back of the hill

Warning: May contain traces of soy, wheat, lecithin and tree nuts. That you are here
strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton.
And that you might like cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Thursday, September 07, 2017


The domestic situation is not exceptional or complicated, but requires some explanation. You may be aware that there are two people and several stuffed animals in this apartment. Myself -- a singular middle-aged fellow, pipe smoker, Dutch American, not peculiar -- and my apartment mate, a Cantonese American woman eight and a half years my junior.

Years ago we had something going on, but now we are just good friends who kept on living together. We have separate sleeping quarters.

We share the television room, bath room, and kitchen.

Unfortunately she has a young gentleman errrm ...

Some dude in a wheelchair, who can't visit.

Hills and stairs are in the way.

Fortunately I do not have to deal with him, because the poor shmo is not only stymied by slopes and second floors, but apparently lives twixt awe and fear of me as I am equally twixt apathy and intellectual dislike of him. The stuffed animals ("roomies") are mostly on the same page as myself regarding that person, though she voices them more than I do.

Now this is the thing: When she makes meals for him, which she does very often because he's even whiter than me and can't cook worth blazes, the kitchen is off limits. Later when the casserole is on the counter cooling and I go in to grab a snack or a warm beverage, I may not smoke in there like I normally do, because he and his food are "sensitive". Tobacco has bad karma that would diminish his nutritional progress when she shleps the chow over to his place. Psychic echoes and auras, or something.

Last night I went in to fetch myself some icecream.

"Don't you dare smoke in there!"

Of course I abstained, but while she was still in the teevee room I savagely whispered the words 'gluten, dairy products, salt, fat, and gmos' at the oven with the roast.

Afterwards I went outside to have a small cheroot.

NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.


  • At 10:29 AM, Anonymous Shitman said…

    Afterwards I went outside to have a small cheroot.

    Oh good, you unleashed your Inner Cherootist, rather than those yucky pipes you always put in your mouth.

  • At 1:54 PM, Blogger The back of the hill said…

    Pipes are an inestimable of my cultural heritage.

    Cigars, of any type, merely a stop gap.


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