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.

Wednesday, July 18, 2018


The smell of pot was rich, heady, and darned near nauseating. This was because the self-proclaimed "most dangerous man in Chinatown" was outside getting stoned. Honestly, I do like him. Despite the fact that he's a pothead, young, silly, and callow. But man oh man, that ganja reek.


Sometimes, angry exclamations are better written down in such a way that a Mandarin speaker can grasp the gist, but an American born youngster can't. And Jenny has been in Chinatown long enough so she can construe any amount of scribbled Cantonese. She happily admitted that she found the odour unbearable. All putrid, lah. 很臭!

This blogger does not like ganja.

I don't care that it's grown by little green nature men in the Amazon who hug dolphins and recycle. Screw them and their tie-dyed natural fibre.
I hope they choke on gluten-free crap and die.
Thank you.

Other than Zonker Harris outside getting whacked, it was a good evening. Only a few white people singing, and they seemed like nice chaps despite not being able to hold a tune or add one iota of depth to the lyrics.
Once they left, Michael Jackson came on.
I asked Jenny to skip that tune.
I hate Michael Jackson.

On the way home, swirling fog enrobed us. Cold, not freezing. Rather moist.
A dense and very San Franciscan night. We contemplated the wonders of the Sunset and Richmond district. And the bus lines that went there.

Sleep well, see you next week.
Zai gazunt. Be well.

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