On the subject of Paul, Timmy and buggars

Timmy never learned. Whatever the case or instance of his ignorance anyone chooses to discuss, Timmy is always going to come out smelling like a transmission. I used to hear it said that Timmy smelled like lots of pork after it's been killed in the sun. And Paul, his brother, known also as “the whale," smelled like some underwear that's been lying in a corner. There is more to it all than that but you must remember that water flows quickly, oil and honey more slowly and shit more slowly than the two of them.

Buggars are the eighth wonder of the world. The first seven pale beside the majestic green olive camouflage bits of olfactory byproducts. Once I knew a man who picked his nose in the window
of a famous restaurant in downtown Hollywood owned by an Iranian Jew named Raji. The man would always ask for this particular window to sit by and would always order coffee and say that he would be ready to order in a little while but that his stomach had to settle, oblivious to the unconcern of the waiter. Then, when the waiter had his back turned he'd pick a big green one and fling it up against the window. I must have witnessed this scene daily from the bus stop outside the window. One time I rode the bus twice in one day, and both times when the bus stopped outside that restaurant I could see the man, evilly leering at the window about to hurl his mucous missile at the glass.