GEHAKTBALLEN EVERYWHERE!

The dumpling place was filled with meatballs. I like dumplings. And I like meatballs. But not when they are ambulatory. And one cannot just go up to them and ask "small humanoid, are you inbred?" Even when they are clearly from very white parts of the country and the answer, if they understood the question, would be a very clear "doh', thus proving that they were.
Let their moronic grins suffice instead.

The city is filled with visitors.

And restaurant staff are overworked and undertipped. Because the outsiders are so darn pleased to be here that they figure we are too. Surely their presence is enough reward?

When I still worked part time at a restaurant, years ago, holidays were the worst time of year. Valentine's Day, Mother's Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day, and everything between the middle of October and New Years. So I left a forty percent tip when I left the place.
I had enjoyed my plate of dumplings immensely.
And they had a version of Sriracha.
Quite tasty, to be sure.

Next July Fourth weekend, go directly for the meatballs.

Nothing is more American than ground meat.


One of the things I've started doing recently is counting how many American-type human bodies are out there whenever I leave my apartment. I've noticed that many Americans are shaped like seals or manatees, and it's become an obsession. They're probably all from the Midwest or the South. Or, exceptionally, the Central Valley. Previously I had counted street people, dogs, and tykes, plus maskiots (maskless passengers on public transit), but the walrusses are more easily spotted. Consider it another manifestation of neurosis.

Man of them are also meatballs.



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