HE WILL WANT TO BE LIKE ME!

Question from the apartment mate, who is a slightly built snarky Cantonese American woman who believes that many white people have screws loose: "Who the hell wants gluten-free fruitcake? Are they nuts?"

They probably are. I am a connoisseur of fruitcake in a way, and I won't touch that gluten-free crap myself. Though I'm Caucasian.

I had a gluten-containing pastry with my second cup of milk tea in Chinatown today, just before it started raining. Following that I spent time outdoors with an umbrella smoking my pipe.

Twilight fell.

How sad that in this modern world middle-aged pipe-smokers must get rained upon while it gets dark, while fragile gluten-phobic anti-smoking bhainchotes get to huddle indoors holding hands in healing circles, and talking about their childhood traumas.

A pox upon their precious childhood traumas.

It was cold outside. Wet and unpleasant.

Fit for neither man nor beast.



The other day, someone asked me "what's wrong with this pipe?"


It had a horrid childhood. It is wounded. If you smoke it, a portal to hell will open up. It will take years of expensive therapy before it's finally healed. Meantime, prepare for daemons when you smoke. And dead dolphins.

What do YOU think is wrong with it?

Crazy theories are okay.



If you don't want us to unduly influence your children, chase us back inside and feed us fruitcake. Otherwise we'll be outdoors on wet days, lurking in sheltered doorways and looking quite totally hip and cool with our neat-o briars, and smelling divine into the bargain. Veritable examples of sane balanced manhood, worth emulating and growing up to be like.

Your adult daughters will probably want to date us.

Go pound your gluten-free fruitcake.
All of you special people.




Come here, little man, would you like an English flake?
All of your superheroes smoke this tobacco.
You will be totally super cool.
Have some gluten.





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