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.

Sunday, June 17, 2018


When I returned home my apartment mate was in her room, resting, much like a Norwegian Blue after a prolonged squawk is alleged to, assuming that such a creature does indeed recline, and is living, rather than being nailed down, cold ex-parrot style.
She was alive. And gleefully showed me a passage in a Dave Sedaris book. Something about someone's senile maternal relative insisting that Adolf Hitler wanted her pussy. Which is rather like one of my regulars, who insists that Robin Williams was killed because he knew too much about the Clinton Foundation fracking Marin County with the Russians (who can, entirely uncoincidentally, see Marin from their consulate in San Francisco), which although top-secret he also knows. Because he has friends at Quantico.
That's why he takes the battery out of his cellphone.
It keeps the gubmint from tracking him.

You know, I suspect that if he thought himself female, he too would be convinced that Hitler wanted his pussy. Totally.

I shan't mention his name, because he has friends at Quantico.

Who would call him up to warn him.

On his cellphone ...

After a brief chat, I left her and her stuffed animals to doze in their room, or read more Dave Sedaris. She's had a long day. She visited the family graves, and was by doing so a good Chinese daughter. I spent all day at work surrounded by cigar smokers and people who should wear form-fitting tinfoil hats. Which I could make for them. And would most willingly! Because, as you know, I am not a good Chinese daughter.
I am a bad snarky Dutchman.
I have tinfoil skills!

I started the day with a tuitknakje (small Dutch perfecto shape cigar) from a venerable company, I shall finish it with a pipe at a nearby drinking establishment after a casual snack and a nap.
That tuitknakje was smoked while wandering the empty streets near my apartment, before taking the bus to the county now being fracked.

During the height of the day, those streets are filled with people like my conspiracy theorist nutball acquaintance. All convinced of something.
This is San Francisco. It must be our karmic magnetism.

"Prithee, good sir, I be a tinne foille hat maker; hast need for arte such as mine?"

Sometimes these good people are in a fighting mood.

Oh, what sad times are these, there is a pestilence upon this land! nothing is sacred. Even those who arrange and design tinfoil hats are under considerable stress at this point in time.

I checked in on my apartment mate a couple of minutes ago.
She's fast asleep, surrounded by all of her stuffed animals.
The good Chinese daughter prefers kipping on her back.

She ate all of the cheesy poofs.
It was a giant bag.
Oh well.

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