That Best Portion
One thing I hate is when people ask if I cook. No, I do not cook, ever, and it’s not because I can’t. It’s because I prefer to have other people do that sort of shit for me. This is also why I do not change linens, recycle, phone people on their birthdays, pour tea, or pick papers off the floor unless they are banknotes.
Oh, fuck off.
That best portion of a good man’s life;
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love. -Wordsworth
Oh, fuck off.
4 Comments:
Thin end of the wedge there, Esther, allowing your resolve to crumble at banknotes. I myself keep an achondroplastic dwarf on a leash specifically for banknote retrieval duties. He wears the most delightful little flunky costume in red velvet and frequently betrays an almost human intelligence. How I love my little Stubby!
Still, if he gets into the cookie jar one more time I'm going to drown the little fucker...
Maybe they are asking you if you cook in a jazz sense. Like: "Charlie Parker really cooked!" In that case, having known you for some time, I would have to say that you do cook.
Remember the Royal Roost in '48? When you and Dexter Gordon got into it and you made the man cry? That was mad.
You can cook, Esther, and woe to the cat who tries to challenge that.
Of course you don't cook, dear, not after that little mishap in Sing-Sing.
Well, you certainly nailed THAT one. Give me Nonwordsworth, anytime. Which, come to think about it, is how Wordsworth can be described. What a bore. Or boor.
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