Wednesday, May 22, 2019

CHICKEN EMPEROR

Arthur and I discussed ways to end undesired conversations quickly. My technique is to start talking intensely about anal probing and space aliens. He simply states that he has diarrhoea, which terminates it almost at once. The bookseller, last night over his hamburger, brought up the phrase "I am going to vomit", which probably has exactly the same effect.
Both of their tactics have a sense of urgency.
Mine is more contemplative.


"Space aliens! Anal probing! I have diarrhoea. 
And I'm going to vomit!"


There's sequentialism, and narrative cohesion, right there. But it is doubtful that anyone wishes to stay to the end and hear more. A pity, because there are any number of directions the discussion could go after that.
Much like a Trumpian tweet.


Every day bots attempt to spam the comments underneath my blogposts. The fastidious apprentice, a scheme of local volunteers, receiving multiple notifications, and several other repetitive themes. Sometimes sent through a translation program and back into English for some real gibberance.
I take pleasure in nixing such things. I wish them anal probes.
And severe bowel distress.


GASTRIC HARMONY

The bookseller and I also talked about food. It's a recurring subject, and fondly dwelt upon. My late lunch yesterday was "white juice chicken emperor rice" (白汁雞皇飯 'baak jap gai wong faan'), by which is meant 'Chicken à la King' over rice. The Hong Kong version lacks the peas and pimiento, as well as Sherry in the cream gravy. Good with hot sauce.
In lieu of 'Baked Portuguese Chicken Rice'.

The last time I had it was ages ago. Cooked by my grandmother.
One of the dishes she did rather well.

The version at the chachanteng didn't resemble hers. But I'll order it again, and indulge in memories.

She would've liked the HK milk tea.

And the ambiance.




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