Thursday, December 07, 2023


Okay, another weird dream fuelled by high blood pressure pills, coffee in the evening, and unwise snack decisions. This time involving architecture, with plenty of nooks for "artistically" placed lighting, yielding a sharp triangular light and shade effect. I woke up later than usual, with my cold-weather bathrobe missing, which I found in the teevee room with a turkey vulture enfolded, happily gloating over my wallet. Which he had stolen.
Along with the robe.

Opportunistic little dude.

It would appear that to get back at me for not bringing him freshly harvested old geezer body parts from my last walk smoking a pipe the night before, he's going to order them on-line. Except that he needs better leverage for the computer and my credit card.
And thumbs. He also needs thumbs.

It strikes me that much of modern architecture leads to bugs.
Just look at New York. It's filled with insects.
As well as sharp triangles.

What also leads to infestations is automatic calls from Alice, a recorded voice, at the Accident Claims Department, who does not listen to me swearing (it was in Dutch, so it was quite odd that it was so ineffective), and helpfully connects me with a specialist, Brian, who does not have a clue. No, I was not involved in an accident -- unless you mean that Burrito from the place for white people staffed by white people, which was uninspired (mediocre carnitas, dammit) several months ago -- and kindly take me off your call list.

Brian is from India. That burrito was over in Marin.
And that was sometime this summer.
No claim filed.

It strikes me that being able to demand insurance compensation for a white people burrito would be immensely useful. As well as a blessing that would put a popular chain responsible for food poisoning scandals every year since they went nation-wide out of business. The place in Marin is not part of that chain, but the good place was closed on Sunday.
And I was quite desperate.

Sometimes a man just needs a burrito. Precisely like a cityfied turkey vulture needs freshly dripping fatty bits from elderly men who have lived beyond their useful years, and might be drunkenly sleeping off their cocktails enjoyed while trying to chat up some nice young thing in a Polk Street dive (it took too long and went nowhere, hence more than a dozen margaritas) in a random doorway halfway up a steep hill. They were tired, the lights were spinning, and good heavens that cold concrete looks comfy!

See, this is why I don't drink. Delusions of studliness.
I've seen what it does to older men. Which is horrible.

I despair over white people burritos as well as senescent roués.
Good heavens, what is wrong with you people?
You are all sinners.

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