Not a rolling stone.
It's a hybrid... of uselessness and poor design.
His farts power his tiny wok, in which he tries to recreate his grandmother's stir-fried cat meat. It haunts him. He weeps.
If he plays dutch oven, and nobody's there to smell it, does it really stink? The question haunts him. He weeps.
The vicious neighborhood dogs teetee on his home. His chopsticks smell of urine and sicken him. He is haunted by dogs in the fog, teeteeing on him. He weeps.
His doorway is nothing but a cloaca. He has nightmares of being born from rabid chickens---they peck and tear at his head during birth. That's why he still eats meat. He stirs pots full of chicken feet. Visions of them scratching in the dust haunt him. He weeps.