Giving blood to make some extra cash seemed like a good idea, but are they sneaking extra pints when he’s not looking?

(from Short Story International, #51)

A funny little story, not just in its plot but also its sentence-to-sentence shenanigans. Nice. Couldn’t find a link to this story online, which is a shame because it’s short and entertaining and a fine one to share.
According to the book’s bio, Schwebel escaped Nazi-Austria to write in Mexico.

But oh what providence, what divine intelligence, that this story should contain within it this word(?): “popeyed” — as in “a woman stared at me, popeyed.” Popeyed is a rare and splendid little word that came up about one hour before I chose and read this story in a conversation with my closest literary confidant. She is fish-sitting a sea creature named Popeye, and another one named Smort or something.
Anyway, she informed me that Popeye, the character, the noted sailor man, got his name from a curious ocular condition that caused his eye to protrude, perhaps during periods of excitement or agitation. I was suprised, disbelieving, at this revelation. Big chin, swollen forearms, engorged shins — these are the more pressing physical characteristics of Popeye, if you ask me. But hey, you learn something new every minute.
Curiouser: I ate spinach at the Oregon Diner tonight, a vegetable I had up till today never ordered. I mean how great is broccoli, people?

Monica McIntyre, “Braggin’ Rites”