Yesterday, Finagle A Bagel gave me chicken soup when I asked for Garden Vegetable. I didn’t realize this till I got it back to the office and popped the lid open. The color looked off. I stirred it, and a chunk of chicken the size of my thumb floated to the top. “That doesn’t grow in a garden.” No, it doesn’t. They are just across the street, so I took it over there and exchanged it. Apologies to the chicken who died in vain.
I got home and flipped through my mail. Omaha Steaks sent me a gift certificate. Or, at least, some promotional material billing itself on the outside of the envelope as a gift certificate . I doubt that. I can see it now, without opening the envelope: a check for $2 that I can deposit, only to be enrolled in some steak subscription program.
I noticed on the envelope that they have a mailing address on a street named John Galt. That’s excellent. I like it when things I dislike get together, because it takes much less of my effort to dislike them. Two birds with one stone, only of course I would never do that. I am not at all surprised that John Galt eats Omaha steaks. I believe in his pantheon, meat-eating is a sign of progress, like air pollution.
If you’re looking for meat this morning, I suggest checking out this new prime rib sub at Quiznos.
Last night I had a dream where I got angry and threw a sloppy food item (I think it was a burrito) at a vegan friend of mine from a long time ago, because she tried to toss an apple to me. I guess in a roundabout way, that’s what I’m doing now. In the dream, all my other friends in the room just stared at me. That’s probably what you’re doing now too.