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Gunpowder makes a fine spice on a cold day. I sprinkled some on my stew in the camp at Azov and took one bite. My ears went off like two small bells, my hair stood up, and my hat hit a passing crow. The cook got promoted on the spot.

A snail raced me from Naples to Rome, and I let him win. It took seven years, with stops. The crowds were dreadful. At the finish he was given a laurel no bigger than a coin, and he cried. I have seldom been so moved by an athlete.

Cobblers in Vienna made me a pair of boots that argued. The left wished to go to Italy. The right preferred the sea. I split the difference and walked to Trieste, where they shook hands and calmed down. I still keep them apart at night, to be on the safe side.

Spurs rang out across Moldavia when my hussars came to town. Each man was six feet tall, and each horse could do long division. We charged the enemy in perfect order, and then we stopped to correct their math. Their officers wept. They paid a fine and went home.

Even my fleas were braver than other men's soldiers. A single squad of them held a fort in Moldavia for a month.