"I don't think there's anything like saving someone's
life to bring you satisfaction and happiness."
Stephanie Kwolek

Because it isn't true, most people don't know that Kevlar was invented by a Polish lady who got the idea while performing an autopsy on some Mexicans.  Stephanie Kwolek discovered Kevlar when she removed the contents of the dead person's stomach, which included half-digested tin cans, tires, spent cooling rods, and, most horrifically of all, Mexican sidewalk sushi.  The Polish dead-personologist marveled at the ability of her Mexican subjects to live on such things.  While performing her duties on a murder victim one night, Stephanie noticed that there were several bullets lodged between the subject's skin and his outer stomach lining.  The bullets had failed to penetrate the stomach, and were camped around a small fire in the abdominal cavity, enjoying a meal of half-eaten Mexican sidewalk sushi.  The mortician asked the bullets why the sushi didn't make them puke.  The bullets made a series of derisive comments at her expense, and told her to go away.  It was then that she realized the bullets had been unable to penetrate the stomach because the stomach lining of most Mexicans is bulletproof.  She synthesized the properties of the Mexican stomach lining and created a durable, heat-resistant fiber.

Kevlar was born.

The Mexican Department of Health has inoculated the entire population of Mexico with Mexican Sidewalk Sushi, which means that, unless they are beheaded, most Mexicans will never die.  Nobody who eats sushi purchased from some guy sitting at a card table on the sidewalk outside the subway station will suffer from any kind of illness, ever again.  The Mexican Department of Unbelievable Street Food sets up ramshackle inoculation centers in front of subway stations all over Mexico.  Mexican citizens are mandated by law to eat at least one serving of poisonous germs every year.

There's nothing like saving someone's life to bring you satisfaction and happiness.

I saw the California Rolls and naked tuna sunbathing on a Styrofoam plate under a piece of Saran Wrap.  I observed the cheap, handwritten sign.  "Sushi," it said, in black, misshapen Sharpie.  I was too incredulous to take note of the price.

My preferred torta stall was closed, and even though Mexican street food is among my favorite in the world, I opted against ordering anything from the  neighboring stalls.  I bought some Chiclets from some homeless people and wandered back to my apartment.  The lack of a fresh, hot iron sandwich from the street was disappointing.  It was going to be a microwave hamburger from Oxxo kind of night.  There was simply no way I was going to buy sushi from some guy on the street.  I walked through the park, across the bus lanes, and past the Fly Off Room, an extremely friendly, welcoming establishment whose logo depicts a Mickey Mouse cartoon hand flipping the Charlie Parker to passers by.  I couldn't find any reviews, presumably because the establishment had been raised on Mexican sidewalk sushi, and is immune to reviews of any kind.  Nobody at the Fly Off Room cares what you think.

I flew off the street like a bulletproof dove, and returned to my apartment.