Thursday, July 13, 2017


The Man Who Smells Like Burnt Broccoli:  I'm a marked man.  I'm doomed from the start.  Predestination declares that I'm doomed to die on January 1, 2000.
Me:  Um, er, um, I'm sorry, but today is July 13, 2017.
The Man Who Smells Like Burnt Broccoli:  That's not possible.  Predestination declares that I'm not allowed to witness the year 2015.  For me to witness the year 2015 is to violet the most sacred year of all time.  We can't mess with predestination.
Me:  What is the predestination leading towards.
The Man who Smells Like Burnt Broccoli:  I don't know what the predestination is leading towards.  I'm not allowed to be alive and breathing on the year 2015 because that's a sacred year.  For that reason alone, I must die on January 1, 2000.  The year 2001 was supposed to be the first year without my contaminating presence.
Me:  Yet, today's date is July 13, 2017 and you're still alive and breathing.  Whatever was supposed to happen never ever showed up.
The Man Who Smells Like Burnt Broccoli:  Oh damn it, I failed.  I failed.  I blew it.  Forgive me.  I blew it.  I blew it.  I blew it.
Me:  Can you please be a bit more vague?  What are you talking about?  What did you blow and what makes the predestination inflexible necessary.
The Man Who Smells Like Burnt Broccoli:  They said it has to be that way.  This is the way it needs to be.  The reason happens to be that.  And I blew it.  I ruined sacred years.  And I have the revolting stench of burnt broccoli.  Zoink.  Always remember the word zoink.  It all fits together.  Taco.  Turkey.  Sheep.  Zoink.  We dance.  They said it.  I blew it.  Clap.  I sing.
The Man Who Smells Like Burnt Broccoli ran away while screaming like a banshee, ran around the corner and vanished from sight.
Me:  I don't get it.  I don't understand it.  It's better that it's all frustratingly cryptic.
And as I'm lost in thought in the scorching hot Summertime, here are some photos of  Imaan Hammam.

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