Weetneess: the las' sardines I weel ebber ead, EBBER, oud ob a can slash teen.
The Wooma said BEEG TREAD, Estorbo, you're geddeen' sardines een arleeb oil to help your digestion whad ees a leedle...slow.
Yom! I said.
I tasde. I leeck the oil. I ead halb the feesh. I stare ad eed. I walgh aroun' the plade whad Ambrose, my deear deparded frien' sen' to me. I stare. I sigh.
I star' to corber orp the plade weeth imaginary san': scrape, scrape, scrape. Eef my enemies smell thees they weel fine' me. I mos' hide eed.
Scrape, scrape. I torn my bag arn eed an' walgh away, deegneefy'.
Estorbo? Que paso? she says. Those wor eemported Portuguese sardines!?
YOU ead them, I soyyest. She deed. Frarm the can nard my plade, whad was buried onder the sand.
They tasted fine' she say.
Whad. Ebber. I say.
Those sardines can keess my tail, I say.
Estorbo, you're weird, she says.
You can talgh, I say. Who's talkeen' to themselbes?
Woul' you lighe sorm pelleds, she as'.
WOUL' I LIGHE SORM PELLEDS?
Breeng them arn, I shout!
Teenkleteenkleteenkle eento my deesh whad deeardedepartedAmbrose sen' me. She adds water, como siempre, por my keedneys.
I dance arn my hine'legs.
She puts eed down.
I ead. I dreenk! Thees ees Paradise.