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
If you’re looking for meat this morning, I suggest checking out this
new prime rib
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.