This is a true-life occurrence from Therapy Park a few years ago. I don't know what that dude had in mind telling me about animal sacrifice while I was feeding the pigeons, but I sent him packing with my encyclopedic knowledge of Leviticus. It's possible that his remark was the world's worst pickup line, worse even than "Hey baby, I'm symptom-free."
I'm in Philadelphia, recovering from hours and hours of Keen family research with a tomato-and-mozzarella sandwich on sourdough and a large black coffee. The subject line is, according to Dr. Keen, what the cleaning woman called "little Walter" sometime in 1896. Hee hee.
Because I exist solely to disappoint you (you didn't know that, did you?) I have decided not to go to the Mütter Ball tomorrow. In one of the magnificent oaken rooms of the library today I spotted Dr. Keen's oil portrait hanging in state among the pictures of the other presidents of the College. He was garbed magnificently in scarlet. I just don't think I'd enjoy his company more with a bunch of steampunk cosplayers milling around under his gaze. But I was, completely inadvertently, present for the lighting of the birthday cake for the eponymous Thomas Dent Mütter (and by the way I think Dr. Keen knew a different Mütter, a Viennese dude named Friedrich, but he probably at least met Thomas Dent). I was hovering over Walter's lamentations regarding the ghastly popularity of reserpine and rauwolfia in preference to lobotomy when a voice came over the loudspeaker to announce that Dr. Mütter's birthday cake would be lit in five minutes in the foyer. Timidly, I asked an employee if I could come along, and that's how I got a slice of Thomas Dent Mütter's two-hundredth-birthday cake, which was dulce de leche with caramel sauce and very tasty. They didn't give me dulce de leche cake with caramel sauce at the GWU Library!