I said, “It’s nice to see you—your eyes are brilliant today,” as I ogled at the feat of space age, designer engineering, that caused the planetoids in her bra to pop up out of the neckline of her lacy dress.

She took off her sunglasses and said, “You mean these? You know, they’re so bright because I’ve spent the week in paradise. I’d rather be a homeless person in San Francisco than a home owner in this shit city! Welcome to my ghetto—great tits, glad you stopped by!”

"It was so nice out west—clear sky, polite people—no Dindus! Well, there were two dignified, elderly black men, the kind of fellows you would like to have a beer with, and I understand that now. The realization that these people could be pleasant—if they had a real language for instance—makes what’s going on in this lovely city of yours that much more intolerable. I’m not taking it anymore. When I see them dropping their trash on my street, I’m going to dump a whole box off in the middle of their street!”

“What is with the weather in this place? I felt great in San Francisco—no aches and pains [from her days dancing on bar tops for the Armenian Mafia in Istanbul, before she made her escape in a Greek billionaire’s yacht], none at all. Now every old injury comes back to plague me.

“Oh, I parked next to this sloppily parked car today—knowing what kind of careless motorist had thus parked, and gave the bitch no room—none, parked like I was at driving school. Then this BT-1000—it was definitely a 1000. I can spot the 900s and 1100’s now after watching Tommy—takes offense. This Dindu bitch comes out and gives me that look, that look that is supposed to activate our white guilt and turn us into a quivering piece of apologetic fear. Not today, Sister! I gave her the old Caucasian snarl. Upon seeing that she was dealing with an atypical honky there was no more ado.”