FATTY INNER THIGHS

When I woke up this morning it was with the cheery 'Fatty Inner Thigh' song ringing in my ears. Reason being the turkey vulture, singing. He's heard about the old fellows that often hang out where I work, and has this fond hope that I can just whack one of them over the head and then harvest turkey vulture food from the still warm corpse. Also, he insists that the next time I go to Chinese Hospital for a doctor's appointment, I bring him along. He'll just clean up the left-overs, surely no one will notice. Just some stringy old folks!

Although he says he prefers white meat.

I've explained to him that any old folks there would poke at him and exclaim at the plumpness, and speculate that whatever this bird is, it's "hou fei ge", and therefore undoubtedly good with mashed garlic (蒜茸 'suen yong') and a dash of soy sauce (豉油 'si yau').
No matter. He's convinced he can outsmart them. They're old.
Anyway, let's talk about the white meat.

On a day when the apartment mate does not have to head off to work, Sydney Fylbert is especially rambunctious. And clearly, Presidents Day is an occasion to celebrate fatty inner thighs and white meat. The best part of the fresh corpse. The holiday was made for this.

No, not mine. He says I need to eat more, I'm too stringy, and why am I this way?
It's very disappointing!


I have explained to him that the staff and patients at Chinese Hospital might object strongly to a little black-feathered ghoul wandering around the hallways, and poking at a few likely victims speculatively, as well as the chance that some myopic old lady would mistake him for a chicken and lie in wait for him with a cleaver. Mmm, fresh meat!

Also, that in any case, whether at the "Stunted Dwarf's Daycare for Smelly Old Suburbanites" where I work, or at the hospital, offing old people and harvesting body parts is just not done. At the very least, society frowns upon that, and questions would be asked. The authorities would look severely askance at it. Frowny faces.


It is quiet now. The apartment mate has gone back to her room to nap a bit, the turkey vulture is on my bed looking blissful, and the sun is shining in to the teevee room where I am at the computer wondering how soon I should put on street clothes and head out for a smoke. I'm probably going to head out relatively early; there is no chance of smoking indoors today.

Maybe that new chachanteng has finally opened? It's very close to convenient alleys where a man can smoke in peace and quiet without angry earthmothers from Berkeley screaming that you're destroying their lungs and tobacco is flithy filthy filthy om shanti dolphins!
Such as they customarily do in the Financial District.
Speaking of fatty inner thighs.

Fortunately Berkeleyites seldome venture into Chinatown. It's too far uphill for their short stumpy legs, there are no Guatamalan fabrics or naturally sourced wheatgrass beverages, everything has gluten, and it's a colonialist construct that offends their sensibilities.
And they've heard that their body parts might be harvested.


He was close. He was real close. You can not see him yet but you can feel him. Like the boat is being sucked up river and the water is flowing back to the jungle. Whatever is going to happen, it's not going to be the way they think at People's Park.

Hey, man, you don't talk to the Colonel. You listen to him. The man's enlarged my mind. He's a poet-warrior in the classic sense. I mean sometimes he'll, uh, well, you'll say hello to him, right? And he'll just walk right by you, and he won't even notice you. And suddenly he'll grab you, and he'll throw you in a corner, and he'll say do you know that if is the middle word in life? If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you, if you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, I mean I'm no, I can't... , I'm a little man, I'm a little man, he's, he's a great man. I should have been a pair of ragged claws scuttling across floors of silent seas, I mean... , fatty inner thighs, man.

Fatty inner thighs.

Oh boy.



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