Sunday, October 25, 2020


Plainly put, he's a bit of a fruitcake. In the past he's lectured me on the duties of a buddhist monk astronaut brain surgeon in the marine corps. If such a man existed.
Of which he is one. It's onerous.

Somebody's got to do it.

Yesterday I postponed my lunch until I was certain that Elvis had not only left the building but wasn't lurking in the parking lot. Nothing would have said "screw you and your burrito" worse than hearing a long rehash of the time he operated on the Shah of Iran while eating a burrito, or the time he fought off Iraqi incendiarists infiltrating the airbase armed with nothing but a burrito. Saved a damsel in distress. With his burrito.
The finest burrito he ever ate.
In great detail.

I had no wish to hear Little White Nipple Dude share his deep thoughts about burritos.

I do not fervently dislike him. But I had already heard about his red lacquer Dunhill lighter, and how it might not be the best thing for lighting his pipe because the high flame could scorch the rim and thus seriously detract from the enjoyment he should have while smoking the Rolls Royce of Tobaccos in the Rolls Royce of briars, and conversationally he goes nowhere too many ways to give him another opening.

It was a very nice burrito. Carnitas, no beans, Spanish rice, extra cheese, chipotle cream, and salsa picante. With the addition of a little salt and Sri Racha it was totally exquisite.

Hearing about the miracle of sardine and whale blubber buritos at the polar station would have cheapened the experience.

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