Joyce: I was saving that for the epiphany. There are seagulls shitting now all over the pillars at the General Post Office and at the Bank of Ireland, there are seagulls shitting on the oily skin of the Liffey & there are seagulls shitting on all the workers loading hops into all the furnaces inside the Guinness factory walls. Alright, Molly, what city’s smell can you tell us about?
Molly: …in Trieste the canal is chocolate with the white ice cream mountains you can see sometimes not since the fog came down I cannot walk in the evenings I go to the circus…
Joyce: Breathe, girl, breathe. Excellent. Exactly what I was going for. You didn’t use the grammar point of course, or the vocabulary point, or, technically speaking, your sense of smell. Excellent, nevertheless. Anyone else?
Stefan: [sighs] In Zurich, there is one town hall, there are some kirches, there is one police headquarters.
Joyce: I’ve never thought of “town hall” as an odor but now I imagine I’ll smell it everywhere I go. Wonderful work, your fractured grammar communicates the misery of existence in Zurich perfectly. Romano?
Romano: Er, Tuesday?
Sacado de “Portrait of the Artist as a Middle-aged ESL Instructor”, en McSweeney’s, la insoportable revista post-post-modernista (o popomo) dirigida por Dave Eggers. No se crean que hay ninguna intenci