Take the Dilla and Run

Emmigration was my muse. I knew this would be my last chance at Deliriamnesty. Dozens of readers awaited new posts. At a bloggerheads: the semester was ending, and there was precious little time between being accused of paintball vigilantism by the BroPo (innocent, for the record) and saying my peaces to various Cuban/Brazilian/Newyorican residents-in-waiting to end the blogjam. I gave He Hate Me a bittersweet farewell, and prepared for a Sweet'n'Sour swansong of my own.

Instead of the traditional shredded cheese, I ripped apart slices of Swiss and cheddar and layed them out like bathers on the deck of my chili-dilla. The turkey got the hand treatment just as the Ratty's footsoldiers were snatching away the lunch meat tongs. I doused the thing.

I threw that bad boy on and let it roast...the cheese got a suntan on the Southwestern squasher, where the Roots and Shoots are picked. I've never been a watcher. I wandered off, to the North, were a frozen soft-serve delight was just waiting for me to sprinkle a fractured cone all over it.

Back at the table, I sat in perfect contentment between my slowly melting frosted Great North and dillacacy-quality South of the Border delight. A grand adios, and hopefully just a preview of September's triumphs to come. Hasta la vista, my senorita...la Refectoria.