WHY SOME OF YOU ARE STILL ALIVE

Counted a dozen whack jobs in Portsmouth Square yesterday. Near the old biddies playing gin rummy. Whom they were exceedingly careful to not disturb. Because if you bother a Canto granny with a pocket full of nickles she won gambling, the gates of hell will open up. She ain't breaking San Francisco law with her cohorts just to spoonfeed you nickels, boy.

The neighborhood fellows will gladly scrape up your messy remains and feed them to the local coyotes. They can find some Chick-fil-A sauce to make you palatable.
Because that's what it's for. Corpse improvement.

Plus, of course, there are the police.
Some of them have relatives.
Who speak Cantonese.


An elderly Cantonese lady on a nearby bench dropped all of her ill-gotten nickles accidentally while I was cleaning the pipe I had been smoking. I am very glad that one of her friends and fellow card sharks helped her pick up all the coins.
Profoundly grateful, in fact.


I am too young and pretty to die.


And, speaking of sauces, I now know where I can buy Kewpie Mayonnaise. Discovered it yesterday. This is important because I owe my apartment mate a bottle of Kewpie, having accidentally left hers out too long. Last year.

This too qualifies as civic improvement. Cantonese women who have Dutch Americans as apartment mates have suffered much, but fortunately condiments partially make up for that.

If that were not the case, this city would be a meaner uglier place.
Cantonese women mayhem is always a distinct possibility.
We Dutch Americans are peace-loving.
Condimentalists.



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