THE SCROFULA! THE SCROFULA!

What with the weather at this time of year in San Francisco, one cannot enjoy an aperatif on a Parisian café terrace. For one thing, it's beastly cold. For another, smoking is outlawed at bars, cafés, restaurants, and similar venues, inside or out. For a third thing, nothing here is in any way Parisian. Or Amsterdammish. They have terraces in Amsterdam.

Nice sheltered terraces, with space heaters at all corners, so that people can enjoy the fresh air and puff their pipes twelve months of the year without once having to set foot in the empty smoke free interior. It cuts down on cleaning staff too.

Still. I suffer in consequence.

After teatime I did enjoy a pipe while wandering about on my way to buy a lottery ticket. Heaven is a very arctic place. And possibly filled with large white tourists.


When I win the lottery, I shall do something about the tourists.

And also install Parisian terraces everywhere.


In other news, the turkey vulture, Sydney Fylbert, claims he cured my scrofula by peeing on my feet, as his kind are wont to do. The fact that I do not have scrofula merely proves his assertion. Curing scrofula is the least he can do for us peasants.

Were he a white human, he'd praise miracle honey and apple cider vinegar.
He'd probably also be an anti-vaxxer, and a vegan.
While peeing on people's feet.


The last time he was in Paris, someone urinated on his feet.
And he doesn't suffer from scrofula.
Quod erat demonstrandum!


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