FAT AND SASSY

One of the things I tend to observe upon leaving work and heading home is the buzzards (turkey vultures) circling over the salt flats, scoping out the smörgåsbord that undoubtedly lies far below, provided for nature's scrappy clean-up crew by a benevolent providence. Cadavers in many stages of decomposition and putrescence. Yummy!


One of these days I'll take a boat out there with a giant bottle of steak sauce.
Introduce the little fellows to the finer things in death.

The problem with a flat expanse of slick sticky mud is that one cannot really get a foot-hold. Hence the boat or skiff at high tide. Something tourists should do, instead of getting stuck, and their motel wondering a week later why they haven't seen Guido, Lucinda, and the little tykes Giorgio and Liliane in a while and how long do they have to wait before they sell the luggage along a street in the Tenderloin.

At least the swamp things appreciate tourism.
The rest of us are still on the fence.
Watchful and apprehensive.

European tourists tend to be adventurous. Most American tourists simply waddle a bit around Fisherman's Wharf or Union Square, then sink exhausted upon the nearest clean surface to swill thirty two ounces of ice tea. With six or seven extra packets of sugar.
"Why, Precious, nobody told me there where hills here!"

Grass-fed Europeans are in any case better than junkfood-fed Americans.
Less likely to lead to swamp thing gout or hardened arteries.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================