A day

Audacious beast wants to slap birds' arses. Is flamingo edible, I ask? A large, glistening pink wing on an ornate serving platter. Swimming in my cape cod are small particles from New England cranberry farms, tended by gentle men in ties. I will be damned if your low-budget blood sugar becomes my problem. Au contraire, sweet, she replies, it will be your problem, but I fail to hear the critical part of her rebuttal because I am choking and gasping for air...

The spices in my jar of chilli mix are of an evil nature not envisioned by the Dutch. But that was earlier in the night, see? Now I stand out on the balcony, thrusting this laptop high into the sweet night air with one hand, allowing it perch over the edge, dangerously -- dangerously -- eight stories up while I type with the other hand. Meanwhile, Blame bangs away on his drums from within the house. It sounds like a box of tambourines tumbling down a flight of stairs as interpreted by a mad jazz monkey.

Would you sell out your colleagues for eighteen thousand bucks? I would.