Shove your "Michelin Guide to Peru" where it doesn’t shine

Autocorrect has

changed our grand

announcement. Instead of

We have a new cat

We have a new car

The fresh set of wheels

is a Jaguar ’26, at 3.9

percent, snagged in the

very moment the

‘27s were set to pounce.

In black we’ll be mistaken

for a panther, stealthy

like Chad Boseman,

headlights that are set on

Siamese, blinding anyone who thinks

they’ll win at chicken.

We’ll morph to a pair of

nighthawks, no more off-to-bed

at 8pm; our vision will be spotted

from the neon—the blink of flashing

drinks—slugging martinis

with the mayor &

all his cronies, no longer having to

slum with the hoi polloi.

It’ll be taxing

to live up to expectations,

the vacays that we’ll post

on Instasham, weaving through

the Andes

with Mr. Whiskers in the back,

panting in delight,

drool on his cold-cut tongue

like a witless pooch,

evoking the one we saw

in the Aston Martin, the

Bulldog riding shotgun

as it passed, its tires bleeding air

as if some hulk had

gave a gut-punch unbeknownst—

exhausted by its rattle

as it idled, while man & mutt

had dawdled in the den,

their endeavour to fold

a map to no avail, quibbling

over the route

most picturesque; obelisks

mottled about, rest stops for the

time that nature beckons.

Andreas Gripp

December 4, 2025

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