Is it just me, or did Jeff Addiss just say, 「Fuck you dolphin, fuck you, whale.」 ?

Kumar brought in some daal roti. Amin announced that he was a gujju and a Patel. Alpesh glanced at him derisively, for he was the only other Indian. Harish told a story about the fishmonger, and Ankit launched into a tirade about his mother's chapati. That may have been all that happened, यार.

Melissa was complaining that I was being nice for the wrong reasons. Several responses came to mind but I instead focused my attention on the man insisting that I had not paid for use of the sushi buffet. Technically, he was correct, but as I had just now learned of the sushi buffet's existence from him, I did not consider this to be a problem by any stretch.

Condescendingly, he attempted to give me an out. Perhaps I took a piece of sushi without realizing it and would like to suddenly remember right at that moment. He seemed unconvinced by my denials. I asked him why exactly he thought I had taken sushi from his precious buffet. Melissa became increasingly more fretful. I was losing patience with both of them, and I was tempted to ask her where her husband was just to cause an explosion, but I knew that that probably was not the right way to escape this situation.

Fahd passed by, and was no help at all.

If you demand respect, you don't deserve it.

I won't be explicit, but David and Nicole helped me relive a memory of Bangkok. Germane to that, I have never seen an American Girl Realdoll, though I am given to understand that Pollak ears are burning.

People keep complaining that I'm not narcissistic enough (Why? What is wrong with them?), so here is a list of airports in which I have sat, but never left except by way of airplane:

• ARN
• CLE
• CLT
• DFW
• IAH
• MAD
• MIA
• MSP
• NRT
• PIT
• SCL
• SLC

It may not be comprehensive.

When I am truly happy, I cannot use earphones, for the sound thence emanating doth clash with the music within.

It was obviously an ethically intolerable situation, which Marcin would denounce and relinquish. Only he would not. He needed Surendra. He wanted to publish what he wrote and to send it to the men who could understand it, the punk bitches of Grakk Auron; he craved their acceptance, their rejection, their endless nattering on.

So they had bargained, he and Surendra, bargained like two greased savages in a lake. For it was clear to Marcin, or at least so he told himself, that there was no way to get what he wanted without compromising his principles.

In truth, he was becoming part of the problem. The entire reserach hierarchy, which he despised, was predicated on a bunch of selfish, deceitful men claiming that they did what they did for the greater good, or because it was the least evil of all the alternatives, or some other flimsy justification.

Deep down, he knew this, and his anger and self-revulsion came out as caustic hostility every time someone dared to criticize him. If he had been a better person, he would have apologized and undone what he knew to be wrong, but something inside him was unwilling to face the fact that he had erred, strayed from the path mapped by his great-aunt Phyllis.

Instead, he retired to his chamber, nerves on edge, and distracted himself with thoughts of the girl from the cotillion with the loud, drunken Tiddlywinkers and the delegation from Decepticon VI. What had her name been? He had been too preoccupied with bragging about his publications to have retained it. Did he even ask?

He had not. Her name is Pertelope.

Wow. Team B did something useful.

I have just been informed that “syfy” is the new SMS abbreviation for “syphilis”.