Wednesday, March 24, 2010


And then there's my father.
He's the opposite of Fredericka,
and will question your manliness
if you don't eat the four-pound
wildebeest cutlet with which he
bombs your plate.
"Not a problem," he says.
"I killed it myself. If you wash it
down with a gallon of ale, you won't choke--
and you'd better not. No 'Heinrich-Himmlin'
maneuver here. We beat those Nazi bastards,
and we don't have to do their bloody maneuvers.
Only 900 grams of fat. Eat the bullet too,
it's got vit-a-mins."

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M is for Margaret, who was swept out to sea...