THE TEA IS COLD

Somewhere in the South, a gentleman probably named Jethro or Joe-Bob (so lets call him 'Jeth-bob') is pouring himself a large glass of sweet tea to go with his donut. It's the breakfast of champions. Every morning. Wakes him up right, soothes his soul, and keeps him regular. He stocked up before the snow hit. He's got enough tea and sugar to last at least a month. One teabag daily, which makes about a gallon, and five one-pound bags of cane sugar.
No, he's never worried about "dahbeets". That's something only Yankees get. Half of his neighbors have it, probably secret Yankees. They won't go the clinic in this weather.

[Clinic: Early stage renal disease because of 'dahbeets', all that sugar. Dialysis twice a week, subsidized insulin. ]

Shoot, he forgot about Momma. She's probably still on the back porch in her hammock!

He goes outside, where it's freezing and totally arctic, and sees a large snow-covered lump in the sagging hammock, all four hundred pounds of her. It snores gently.
Snow didn't even wake her up. She's got plenty of insulation.
Besides being a damned secret Yankee.
Dahbeets.


It strikes me that if you pronounce 'diabetes' with a Southern accent it sounds kinder and gentler. Dahbeets. Kind of soothing, not like something that could harm you. Go on, have another BIG glass of sweet tea. Don't worry your pretty little head about a thing, now.
Everything is gonna be all right. There there.

Dahbeets.

Does your pickup truck start in cold weather? Maybe you should take public transit, it's nice and warm with all those once-in-a-blue-moon passengers wedged together.
Sure, there's that smell, but as long as it's warm.

They smell sour underneath the deodorant, the perfumes and the colognes. Pockets of stale air. There's a buildup of ketones, including acetone, in the blood and expelled through breath.


Yeah, okay, I have no idea what the South is like.
I'm imagining all kinds of things, though.
I'll pass on the sweet tea.

I've heard it makes people crazy.



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I ACTUALLY LIKE PEOPLE

While I was walking down the hill with my pipe after lunch an exceedingly pretty woman gave me a very heartfelt "ni hao, hen jiao bu jian" (你好，很久不見). Which indicates three things immediately; 1) She recognized me from someplace, 2) We had spoken Mandarin there, and 3) the impression I made was excellent. The problem in all of that is also three fold; 1) where on earth had it been? 2) Had I really spoken intelligible Mandarin? 3) Good lord, favourable impression? Me?

I tend to think of myself as a rather grumpy goober most of the time. Perhaps I should start considering myself as a likeable old git instead. And the major problem is that I cannot for the life of me remember where we met.

Being warmly greeted by a pretty woman is nice.
If I behave it may happen more often.

My Mandarin is pretty lousy, most of the time in a Chinese context I rely on Cantonese. But in the case of charming intelligent women I will step out of my comfort zone. Problem is that that is thin ice. The borderzone between comfort zone and danger zone is rather slim.


Maybe it was my deodorant. Which is sporty and youthful.
That may have made a positive impression.
Doubtful, but not impossible.


And, speaking of deodorant, I found out yesterday that there is one that smells like snickerdoodle. Why on earth would anyone want their pits to reek of a bakery?
How seriously nuts are people? Americans?

Lunch had been excellent. But I've realized that what this world -- or at least San Francisco Chinatown -- really needs is a place with spicy pork rice noodles, cilantro, slight hint of lemon grass (咖喱豬肉河粉湯 'gaa lei chü yiuk ho fan tong'). Ripe red chilies. It would be something that might give my cardiologist nightmares, but which they couldn't resist sampling often.

If you have it more than once a week you might be dead within a year. Or suffer from gout that goes all the way from the ball joint to the torso. Same with the other great idea I had, namely dried oyster rice sheet noodle rolls (蠔豉腸粉 'hou si cheung fan').



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ONE AND A HALF HOURS EACH

To show support for ICE agents who can't pee in gas stations, the government is sending a known sofa abuser to Minneapolis. Now, no matter what you might think of ICE, they don't deserve this. Many of them have sofas at home, or intend to purchase one with their signing bonuses -- they've heard so much about them and think a sofa would be a splendid addition to their single person family -- and they have to babysit a limp-wristed Nazi midget who can't even throw a green gas grenade without the contents blowing back on them, and perhaps a furniture maltreating cretin should be the last of their worries. And I agree.
Except for one thing.

I myself do not own a sofa, and consequently couldn't care less. About any looming danger to sofas. Kitchen cabinets would be a different matter. As would rattan chairs. One of which is where I sit when I'm on the computer reading about sofa abuse at the highest levels.

If our elected officials and their obsequious enablers spent more time abusing sofas (or easy chairs, random throw pillows, and lawn furniture) that would be a good thing. Especially during the snow storm set to hit large parts of this country within hours. Which will be monumental. Ted Cruz has already gone to Cancun, so it promises to be a doozy.

Therefore I respectfully ask that ALL members of Trump's regime go hump furniture out on the lawn while it's snowing, for the good of the country. And think about Jesus.
Jesus would want them to do that. During a blizzard. Hallelujah.

It would be far more productive than anything they've done up till now, AND it would show solidarity with all their red state voters who have sofas, as well as the trailer park residents who will eventually buy one, if meth sales perk up, which they might now that the fentanyl crisis has been dealt with. Fentanyl, by the way, competes directly with home grown all American substances. Which is why.

As a nod to whisky makers all over the red states, I should point out that Bourbon aids in breaking the ice when negotiating with a sofa. It acts as a lubricant in a way. Good stuff.

Personally I don't have Bourbon either, much like the sofa I don't own.
See, it won't fit in the trailer with all fifteen of us.
We take turns sharing the bed.



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THE FIRST RUMBLES

Ying Ying has a little pale purple plastic doohickey which her grandfather wishes to see. But she is loathe to relingquish it. Which is something I can get behind. There is NO reason why a little four year old girl who has learned the first five letters of the alphabet recently should surrender whatever that is. She's absolutely adorable, and doesn't know it.

That little girl will achieve much. Never give up what's yours, Ying Ying. Whatever it is. From across the room I couldn't identify the thingamajig, other than presuming the material to be matte plastic, pale violet purple, and probably shock-resistent.

And I was enchanted by the perfection of her face.
She looks like a brilliant moppet.
And five letters!

A. B. C. D. E.


I am a sucker for brilliant women. They make opening doors for them fun. I ascribe this to my cat Dorothy, back in Valkenswaard years ago. Who had an engaging personality and was far more interactive than her daughter Narnia, or grandkids 'Wild Thing A' and 'Wild Thing B', or her distant cousin Banes, a slithy tom who would come padding in from the yard whenever my brother Tobias played a musical instrument.

The rather pointless illustration above features neither women nor felines, despite both of those subjects being at the forefront of my mind. It's based, more or less, on a complicated dream before I woke up this morning, in which I was using liquid colours on canvas. It was raining in the alleyway next to the space in Chinatown where I was working. Interesting, because even though I spend a fair amount of time in Chinatown, I don't live there.

On my days off I go to Chinatown.

Yesterday I was at a chachanteng, a bank, a general store, a place that sells lottery tickets, a vegetable shop, and a grocers, plus a bakery for tea and an egg tart. Yes, there were women in all of those places, and some of them have cats too. That's all perfectly coincidental.


The lead-up to New Year has already begun. Mini nin-gou (年糕), red paper things in a huge variety, green plants you might want to put in your foyer, and such like. Soon every one will start losing their minds, and women will push and shove at bins with oranges and tangerines to get the nicest ones with stems and green leaves attached mine bitch I saw it first and no you can't have it mine mine mine I'm taking all of them they're all mine!

My family is deserving of the good fortune, prosperity and good health all these symbolic things and practices will surely bring, whereas your family isn't. Sorry. I hope you have happiness and luck! And some of sweetness. Eat dumplings!


All I really care about are the dumplings.



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DINING AND FINE DINING

There are several dishes at Canto eateries which you know from home cooking, but which you also know from all those times when you're lazy and decide to eat out. During warmer weather you might head over wearing pajama pants, a tee shirt, and flip-flops. Which you cannot do in San Francisco when the temperature hovers near fifty Fahrenheit.
And in any case the white people might object.

Not me, of course, because I find all manifestations of eccentric behaviour fascinating, and as I recognize that that's a sign of a personal comfort zone rather than dangerous craziness from drugged-out fentanyl freaks, it doesn't disturb me. There you'll be, one flip-flopped foot drawn up on the chair, scrolling through the news and your social media feed with your left hand, while happily tucking into claypot rice with your right.

It's a restaurant where white people don't go, because they don't know what the food is, and they associate casseroles with either inedible Chicago pizza or Midwestern potlucks.
The clientele do not look like Iowa, the food does not look Chicago.


After watching Jon Stewart's rant about pizza I'm not even sure you can get food in Chicago. Perhaps it's why they swill Malört. It clears the taste of kibble out of their mouth, and they're filled with such soul-crushing angst that Malört tastes bearable. Not okay. Bearable. Barely.
Iowa still hasn't learned about salt and pepper. So much more angstig. Poor bastards.

Some dishes I despair of ever getting my fellow glow-in-the-dark white people to try. That is to say, I assume they'll wrinkle their noses at the suggestion and say something incredibly stupid, so I never even try.

Anything with salt fish (鹹魚 'haam yü'), for instance. White Americans are predisposed to feign repulsion at the concept, and act all culturally superior. Kind of like Northern Chinese.

Three home style dishes you should, ideally be able to get at the corner restaurant: Steamed pork and salt fish (鹹魚豬肉丁 'haam yü chü yiuk ding'), steamed salt fish pork patty (鹹魚蒸肉餅 'haam yü jing yiuk beng'), and salt fish and chicken fried rice (鹹魚雞粒炒飯 'haam yü gai nap chaau faan'). If they don't do any of those, consider moving.

If you wish to make them at home, look for "plum fragrance salt fish" (梅香鹹魚 'mui heung haam yü'). Which means that is not just dried, but fermented. Good stuff.

And if you can't find that locally, good lord get out.
You live in Iowa without realizing it.



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MISCOMMUNICATION IS KEY

Sometimes I think that my apartment mate is off the deep end. Since Saturday she's been obsessing about a pearl necklace which she is restringing, fussing over precise graduation of sizes and the knots in between just ever so. She's done it at least three times by now, taking several hours each time. When I point out that it's fine, just fine, stop frustering, she counters that it's exactly like my pipe work, when I'll spend hours with micro-fibre pads getting the rims perfectly done, or steaming out minute dings whatever. Which is serious aesthetic labour not to be sneered at by any means. But okay, point taken.

Currently there are no pipes I'm working on. But I'm still looking at the rim of an old Dunhill Bruyere, billiard shape, group 4, and wondering if it needs more work. I smoked it last night while waiting for the bookseller in Chinatown. It's around forty years old and has been with me for a while. It's a pipe with a certain gravitas, such as a country doctor or an engineer working for the space agency might smoke.

Or, hypothetically, someone who did credit checks for the toy industry.


One of the pipes I'll have with me today will be a Peterson sandblast, and a Dublin shape natural with Dublin & London stamping and a p-lip. Very harbour pilot in a tropical estuary looking, imagine the mosquitoes and those pesky little sandflies oh look there's a water monitor lizard with nasty pointy teeth. The first for after lunch at a chachanteng, the second after grocery shopping, and a cuppa at the bakery where the elderly Cantonese gentlemen will probably be.

Most of them were born here and speak English far better than their parents' Toisanese, and three out of four have hearing problems. One of them has been long-distance involved with a woman in the mainland somewhere outside of Canton, who is probably twenty years younger than him (so late-fifties at the youngest), and I have no idea how he communicates with her seeing as she is not Toisanese. Perhaps in English?

In any case, it's quite admirable that he is still involved with the opposite gender. Even if it is miscommunicatively and long distance. I myself miscommunicate with a number of people, some of whom are not English speakers, a few of whom are of the opposite gender.
But not in any way like that.

For some strange reason very few of the people with whom I miscommunicate hang around in Chinatown bakeries or chachanteng. I cannot understand why.

Perhaps they're afraid that there are creatures with nasty pointy teeth there. Perhaps just under the surface of their hot beverage. I can assure them that that is not so. I am a Dutch American with an affintiy for water monitors, and of this I am certain. I would know.

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FRAGRANT SMOKE AND SERIOUS MATTERS

The bar we to which we normally go because the karaoke joint is filled with screaming white women singing badly was closing early. Different person behind the counter than normal, and only one customer left. So it was an early evening. The burger place had been much like normal, however.

We spoke about recent events, particularly the disastrous loss of the Forty Niners on Sunday to the Seattle Seahawks. A complete rout. A debacle, a humiliating defeat, a totally miserable cringe-worthy performance, total abasement, humiliating, pitiful, and ghastly. The Seahawks wiped the floor with the Niners, destroyed them, smashed them utterly. Naturally this pleased us, because it is exceedingly good to live in a city filled with disappointed sports fans. Who really should take the team's horrible performance personally, as a reflection on them and their faltering limp and spongy manhoods.

Okay?

In a word: they sucked.
Suck suck suck suck sucked!

And I say that as a man wearing a football themed garment proudly promoting a team that has never once lost a game. Primarily because it's an institution which does not do sports but graduates Talmudic giants. So can we please stop talking about that stupid game and that rotten miserable team and instead talk about something meaningful like Bava Kamma, Bava Metziah, and Bava Batra?

Hmmm?

In other news, night time San Francisco is getting more surreal. While I was smoking my pipe and waiting for the bookseller to arrive, a woman asked me about my briar and offered to sell me cigarettes in Cantonese. Did I just encounter a freelance tobacconist from the mainland? I should have asked her what type of ciggies she had. I'm rather fond of Ng Yip San (五葉神) and Diamond Brand Lotus Cigarettes (鑽石品牌，荷花煙仔).

While waiting for our bus we saw a wheelchair cross the intersection blasting some serious funk music, and a woman carrying a huge stuffed sloth larger than the one currently on my bed. This is what San Francisco is all about. Soul and stuffed animals.

Also, I finally realized where that voice in my head came from every time I read another late night Trump tirade. It's Raoul Duke (Johnny Dep) stating that his name is on the list, he has his attorney with him, and they must have a suite! Terrible things were happening, buy us some golf shoes, it's impossible to walk in this muck otherwise we'll never get out alive!

Doctor Gonzo was merely drugged out of his gourd, not senile and gibbering.

But that way of talking is the perfect match for it.

Adderal and pineal gland extract.



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PENGUINS, HERRING, AND LETTUCE

Today I could have done my laundry, visited my bank, and paid bills. But because today is Penguin Awareness Day for 2026 today, I didn't do any of that. It's Penguin Awareness Day! Let us all waddle in celebration of our sphenisciformic fellow citizens. Of whom there aren't that many, because they aren't native to the North American continent, but we appreciate them never-the-less. Or at least, I do.

The proper celebratory food to enjoy on this special day is "one herring whopper, hold the mayo". Per Bill the Cat's friend. Sadly, American fast food franchises are not on board with this yet, so it's still unavailable. And in any case it should be 'hold the lettuce', not mayo. If you're in Holland, like many civilized people, herring is do-able. Americans have not yet wigged on to good food yet.

A herring would turn up its nose at crap like lutefisk and surströmming, the first of which is regrettably present here, and extremely popular in some parts of the country.

There are no penguins in Greenland, but perhaps they have herring there, in addition to lutefisk, which might be the only reason to want the place.

J. D. Vance does not eat herring.
He is a very flawed man.
Possibly a Texan.

In any case, like our president, Vance probably prefers hamberders. Now, hamberders are a very fine food, to be sure, and far be it from me to criticise the beloved iconic national dish of the entire Deep South, bless their hearts, but the hamberder cannot possibly compare to the herring whopper with or without something held.

Hamberders are poor folks food, eaten when you're drunk, in a hurry, tired from a long day working, or you lost the plantation because them damned Yankees burned it down, dang it. The herring whopper is fine dining, enjoyed in a leisurely fashion, while you are laughing riotously at the funny bits in Gone With The Wind.


Hold the lettuce. Always.
Rabbits hump in it.



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A QUESTION OF PERSPECTIVE

There's a video of ICE agents detaining a man forcefully because he has an accent. Which, as they're strong-arming him, they explain is the reason for grabbing him. An accent.
No other reason. They make that absolutely clear.

I have an accent. My family has been here since Nieuw Amsterdam days. We went overseas when I was two. Since returning for college regular American have told me to go back where I came from. So, do I trust a bunch of blinkered inbreds with bulletproof vests and tactical gear who think they're above the law? Mmm, no. Not any further than I can spit.

There are also videos of ICE agents slamming people to the ground, clobbering them, breaking down doors, shoving an elderly man who looks non-white out into freezing temperatures, and breaking car windows to drag screaming people out.

Did I already mention that I have an accent?


The last non-American in the family was three generations ago. My family served in each World War. And in Korea. And in the Civil War on the Union side.

But I have an accent.

Some of my best friends are lily-white Americans with very Waspy surnames who don't have accents. And I'm ashamed to admit it, but because they are lily-white with Waspy surnames, lacking accents, they are a little suspect. They could travel to Kansas or Iowa, or even to the place where my maternal grandfather was from (in Indiana) without raising eye-brows, being questioned about their backgrounds, or being told to go back where they came from.

I also am lily white, with a Waspy surname. If I keep my mouth shut I'm fine.


No, I don't worry that if I visited Kansas or Iowa, or Peru, Indiana, I would be stomped by a xenophobic Christian member of the Elks Club the very moment I asked for hot sauce (!) at the local diner, I am not that paranoid. But there is probably no hot sauce there anyway.
And no reason to visit.

Initial cursory internet research into restaurants in Peru, Indiana, indicate that options for Chinese food, pizza, or Indian, may be a bit limited.


There's plenty of hot sauce in San Francisco.



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THE EARLY AMBLE

Didn't smoke a pipe at all yesterday, it being a holiday so my apartment mate was at home, and I didn't feel like going anywhere other than the Pakistani restaurant that she suggested where we had an excellent lunch. But this morning I jazzed myself up with some coffee and stepped out with a pipe and some Rattray's tobacco. Day off, feet recovered from workweek.
And I'm perky. Oh lordy yes.


Rattray's various Virginia offerings are suitable for smokers of any age and either gender.
So I'm surprised that I don't run into more people who recognize the fabulous smell.
Or any of them, really. Must be the time of day.

People who wander around this neighborhood early in the morning are probably more familiar with the odour of their dog's digestive tract terminus than anything refined.

There's just no accounting for tastes.

When I wake up, I usually want a hot caffeinated beverage, followed by a smoke while wandering around the neighborhood enjoying the fresh air and the birds tweetering.
Dog poo is the last thing on my mind. I'm normal.


Mind you, I like dogs and get along well with them. It's dog owners I find problematic. They're too needy and always want attention, and that whole crotch sniffing thing is a bit much.
Cats are much more civilized, and sometimes they gift you a dead mouse.
It's a token of their near-parental concern.
Encouragement, in a way.
Eat better!

A cat will never insist that you go duck hunting, will not drag you out of bed to poo, and won't bark at birds, travelling salesmen, or other creatures. Nor will it slobber and act drunk.
It may lie on your keyboard, for want of an old-fashioned typewriter.
Or sleep in a shaft of sunlight on your chest.
Sober common sense behaviour.
And indolence.


There is a cat in the picture above. The reason you cannot see it is because it isn't jumping around and barking at a chipmunk. Nor did it use any part of the pavement as its toilet.

When my apartment mate leaves for work I shall shut her bedroom door and open a few windows, so that I can smoke indoors while doomscrolling, safely away from people out toilet-walking their ambulatory four legged or two legged poo-factories.
I am not what's wrong with this country as some of them think.
If there were a cat, it would not object.
Or bark at me.



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THE CHAMBER OF THE MAD KING

So, because Norway didn't give him a Nobel Prize for peace, he's doing everything in his power to provoke World War Three and force Denmark to give him Greenland. And his cabinet, knowing full well that if they play their cards right, they'll have orgasms beyond belief, are prodding him in several directions. And they keep feeding him hamberders, despite knowing what it will do to the fatty deposits around his aorta and his brain.
As well as being bad for his blood pressure and sperm count.

Oh, the humanity!

Meanwhile, there are reliable reports that his wife finds him repulsive, that he smells like roast beef gone bad, very bad, and keeps audibly farting. And did anyone ever mention cankles and tiny puffy bruised hands?


Maga still worships him.


Maga has very low standards and many members who aspire to his level. If they do, maybe they'll get treatment. As well as hamberders. Hamberders would be so nice. It is those evil foreigners and Denmark who are hogging all the hamberders, so unfair, and why are those lutefisters sitting on top of their hamberders? Do something!

And then there's Tommy Turberville, who is too stupid even for that.
There is strong evidence that he can't spell 'hamberder'.
Or even locate Greenland on a map.
It's not Mississippi.

There are many good reasons not to visit anywhere between Treasure Island and Staten Island. The berserk obsession of the brainless Christian savages in the interior with sperm count and hamberders, both washed down with crappy beer, is just one example.


Besides, there is just far too much Texas there. Like a huge cancer spreading across the continent, swallowing up vital organs and brain cells used for critical thinking.



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YOU WOULD HAVE TO DO ALL THE TALKING

My apartment mate proposed lunch at the nearby Pakistani place. To which I alacritously agreed, as it is very good. She also suggested inviting our landlady along, because she fears that she (landlady) might be a bit lonely. I kind of indicated that I was not entirely enthusiastic about that. I am not that social. What I didn't say was that having dealt with people for a few days at work, all day long, my social batteries are a bit low.

And normally I find being convivial a bit trying anyhow. I don't mind being around other folks talking and will interact appropriately when needed, but my role is primarily to prompt them at times, and listen.
Also unsaid: good lord woman, you are far more Aspy than I am, do you really think that's a good idea? And you would have to be the more socially interactive person in any case, as on my first day off I am very much a rutabaga.

We rutabagas are not well-known for being the life of the party in any case. At many cocktail get-togethers nobody says "oh look, the rutabaga is in the house, now the fun starts!"

In fact, there could be a whole bushel of rutabagas at the bar, and it would be dead quiet, except for the soft sound of shuffling as each root vegetable subtly ensures a greater distance from the nearest conversational threat.

Nice weather we're having. Yes. Sunshine.
My root tendrils enjoy warm soil.
And the earthworms.


Did you know that when the weather heats up in Spring there are more earthworms about?
I don't know what the increase in their population is when conditions are better. Someone should do a study. Is their reproduction a yearly thing, or can it take place a number of times over summer? Do earthdwelling segmented annelids reproduce with external ova clusters.
Or do they carry their developing young along attached to their external surfaces?
Yeah, the possibility of conversation stagnating is rather immense.
Small talk about earthworm sex is not conducive.

Perhaps if each rutabaga present quoted from Monty Python as approrpiate. I've had entire conversations where the whole time Monty Python was in play. Several occasions. The dead cabinet in the sitting room. Drawing room. Eh, you know what I mean. Vacations in Southern Spain involving Watney's Red Barrel and a lizard in the bidet. Dead parrots with beautiful plumage. Killer rabbits. Three questions. Swallows and coconuts.

These interactions were lively and enjoyable, but very many non-rutabagas are unfamiliar with Monty Python. An exception being rabbis and Talmudic scholars, quite a few of whom are surprisingly in tune with the Pythonesque gestalt.



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NOT ALL CUTE IS THE SAME

It turned out that the word "cute" upset him. I had applied it to a young lady who had left, and he acted shocked. I mentioned that the fifteen year old daughter of an Indonesian restaurant owner years ago was cute, and that disturbed him. So as examples, I brought up Shirley Temple (cute), Taylor Swift (cute), Marilyn Monroe (cute), and the waitress at an Indian place who had breasts like ripe mangoes but was an awful vicious piece of work.

His preferred cigar was also 'cute'. But I did not say so.

He may now understand that 'cute' does not mean exactly what he thought it did. This was in the middle of a discussion about lutefisk (horribly not cute), surströmming (un-cuteness in a swollen can), and hákarl (the not-cute that exemplifies utter non-cuteness).
Sometimes conversations veer horribly sideways.

Bikini briefs and raw herring are also cute. Not in combination, though. Seperately.

Trust me, cute is not that. Small tobacco pipes look cute. Hello Kitty is cute. Hello Kitty's grandpa smoking a small tobacco pipe can also be considered cute. A young lady wearing Hello Kitty briefs while eating Dutch herring might likewise be very cute. Demented, but cute. Depending on the circumstances it could also be extremely disurbing -- whose sick fantasy is this anyway -- whereas Grandpa Anthony eating herring that Hello Kitty brought him, yes, definitely cute, but also mmm, well, no.

A cute Scandinavian woman consuming lutefisk, surströmming, or hákarl is weaponized cute turned into a horror show. And as good a reason to question life and the modern world as any. I'm not interested in whether she is wearing Hello Kitty bikini briefs or not. Is that all she's wearing? I still don't want to be in the same room. Under any circumstance.

Don't be surprised if I walk away softly moaning.

The Dutch, as you should know, are quite fond of herring, but consider what the Germans and Scandinavians do to it a crime against nature. Which is how we got onto the subject.

At the end of the thirteenth century, Willem Beukelszoon from Biervliet invented a process for dealing with herring that allowed boats to stay out much longer instead of heading back to port before darkness fell every day. That meant that better sailing vessels were designed, which allowed the Dutch to trade between the Baltic Sea and the Mediterranean during the offseason, and eventually outcompete damned well everybody else at the time. Commerce! Shipboard cannon! Armed merchantmen and company ships, attacks on the Spanish and the Portuguese, and the establishment of a mercantile empire. Further technological and scientific developments. Plus spices, coffee, tea, sugar, and cigars.

That improvement in fishing also meant that a larger population could be supported, and employed in industry rather than stuck on farms. The modern city was a direct result.

Our Scandinavian cousins, on the other hand, were perfectly happy sticking to exceedingly nasty variations of semi-controlled fish rot (lutefisk, surströmming, and hákarl, for example) and in consequence never amounted to much. Certainly a Scandinavian woman wearing nought but Hello Kitty Bikini Briefs might look darn cute, but the guaranteed presence in her vicinity of lutefisk, surströmming, or hákarl will keep civilized people away. Far away. Later they came up with Abba. The music of lutefisk, surströmming, and hákarl.
That alone should tell you something.



The Padron 1964 Principe (4 1/2" x 46) is a small cigar, and compared to many other Padron vitolas extremely cute. If you wish to wear it garbed only in bikini briefs I shall not criticize. But please be aware that more clothing will prevent hot ashes hitting your bare skin.
So that's advised. Fully clothed while enjoying your smoke is best.
Even after a shower. I worry about you people.



Lutefisk, properly prepared, is slimy and gelatinous, and distinctly whiffs of seafoods ten days past their prime. It is considered a delicacy. It may still have bones.
Self doubts, and stern disapproval of other people.
Ingmar Bergman films.




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THE SINCERITY

The other day an anti-Islamic activist went to Minneapolis to burn a Quran and demonstrate his love for ICE. He thought thousands, or at least several hundred, would be joining him, based on the favourable reactions to his proposed demo on twitter.

The demo fizzled and he got his ass kicked.

Right wing influencer Jake Lang tried to run away when confronted by protesters outside of Minneapolis city hall on January 17, 2026. Please note that he survived, and got medical treament for some very minor injuries sustained while being a dickhead. The greatest damage was done to his mental image of his penis. Poor baby!

Sadly, there was only one of him whose ass to kick. Many more racists and white Christian Nationalists should have gotten an ass kicking, but there wasn't enough ass to go around. Which is extremely unfair. Quite. I'm sure I shall be hearing about it from the rancid old bastards in the backroom at work today. I wish they could have been there.

From my point of view, having seen and enjoyed several videos of the event, the loud and contentious angry confrontation was extremely civil, almost placid, with the multiple sincere invitations for Jake Lang to go XXXX himself being uttered with vehement precision, clearly enunciated for his complete comprehension, and with an obvious desire to communicate. Undoubtedly he understood their message. Beautiful dialogue. Eloquent rhetoric.

At no point were pitchforks in view!

It's what this country is all about.

I wish to commend everyone involved for not smearing his entrails across the pavement, nor parading his head on a spike. So they were, all things considered, peaceful and clearly filled with genuine Christian love. Kudos!

You know, years ago, when I was still regularly involved in demonstrations and counter demonstrations, it was obvious that no matter what was said or thrown, as long as there was no broken plate glass, nor burning storefronts, blood on the sidewalk, and the coroners office had not been called, as far as the local police were concerned it had been a peaceful demonstration. And by those standards this was an extraordinary success.

Naturally I stand in awe.


Agains, kudos.




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THINGS ARE DIFFERENT THERE

Please imagine how disconcerted I am to hear that because I take acetominophen I am going to give birth to an autistic foetus. This per a medical expert, self-proclaimed, who warned me with grave tones about this. I thought I was simply dealing with the soreness in my upper back an hour after starting the day at work. First thing I do after getting to work is pop an extra-strength tab, knowing that it takes about two hours or so to take full effect.
Mid-afternoon, half a regular strength tab, to maintain the "high", if that's what it can be called, till I lock the door and head home.

So okay then. Autistic foetus.

I do not possess a womb.

And I'm male, straight, and past menopausal age.
But Marinites live in an alternative reality.


I've got a little row of medications I take every day for high blood pressure etcetera, half of which warn me not get pregnant while taking them, not to nurse an infant, and may cause dizziness. I can religiously affirm that I have done nothing which might cause any pregnancy since they were first praescribed, nor nursed any infants, and I haven't gotten dizzy either. So I'm baffled as to where the autistic foetus might come from. Is there something about Marin County I should know? Magic babies? Karmic aura pregnancy irrespective? Ectoplasmic womb fulfillment? Mad scientists hiding behind the shrubbery?


Autistic foetuses my ass.

Many people in Marin are spiritual and have third eyes. Their consciousnesses have been raised, and they've done their own research. Their past life experiences have made them wise beyond their years. They are, consquently, exceedingly irritating.


Somewhere in Marin there's a place where elderly hippies go to die when they feel their end is near. The local tribes don't talk about it, for fear that outsiders might harvest all the tie-dye.

Theories focus on hippie behavior during lean times, suggesting that starving or elderly hippies who have worn their teeth down to a point that they can no longer chew tougher foods gather in places where there is lots of tofu and subsequently die there.

Prolific big game hunter Walter "Karamojo" Bell discounted the idea of the hippie graveyard, stating that "bones and grateful dead tee-shirts were still lying about in the bush where they had lain for years", but he probably just wanted to keep it all for himself.



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EAT MORE BEANS

One of the things that stands out over the past several months is precisely how many Maga Americans have lost their jobs because of Trump. Including factory workers whose salaries actually depended on imports and cheaper labour elsewhere. Making America great again apparently now means living on beans and rice without medical coverage, precisely like a third worlder. The conclusion: make America Mexico again.

Missing in that now famous picture of one piece chicken, one piece boiled broccoli, a tortilla, and a breath mint (the $3.00 meal) are the beans to round out the nutrition and hot sauce to make it all passable. Perhaps cut back on the chicken, so you can afford those too?

How is that 'make America great again' going for you?

Now that those illegal Mexicans next door have been deported, you can finally move into their mansion. Perhaps they left some supplies in the larder. A bottle of Tapatio hot sauce and a BIG bag of pintos.

Don't count on your friends and neighbors for any help, they're Christians and don't believe in helping the poor. Instead, they're hoarding everything and giving you free advice.

Bootstraps! Tithing! Trad wife!

No avocado toast!

Your life, according to American Protestant Christianity, is supposed to be filled with hardship and suffering. It builds character, teaches you the error of your ways, and makes America great. Healthcare, nutrition, and functional literacy are luxuries and sinful.

And I'm glad you're finally starting to realize that.


I was worried that you were getting used to good things, and it was making you lazy.



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WE DIDN'T START THE FIRE

Maybe I pissed off a facebook friend by writing "That Israelis are upset over Iranians is so moving. I'm grateful that they aren't saying shit about what's going on here. Because heaven forfend" , followed by "at present I don't give a rats ass about Iran, okay?" Turns out that the FB friend doesn't care about Minneapolis. But has his knickers in a twist over Iran.

Please understand that Netanyahu and our alleged friends in the gulf have all asked Trump to back off, so the official line now is that the Iranians can go suck an egg. And given that that has always been the case, because we don't talk to the Iranian government, and bombing them will accomplish precisely nothing (unless we go completely overboard, in which case the top, having been erased, will be replaced by far worse people), none of us should care very much either.

Those Israelis should just shut the F up. We're not pulling their imagined sore nuts out of the fire on this one. We're far too busy arresting Anne Frank in Minneapolis and threatening to take over Greenland and destroy NATO for lebensraum and White Christian America.

It will be better than the Sudetenland.
Trust me. Murica!


Yeah, mm, okay, what the ayatullahs are doing is truly horrific, up to twelve thousand people may have been killed surpressing the protestors, but Minneapolis is in the United States.
Those people there are our fellow citizens being brutalized by Trump's goons.

Our people should be more important to us than any number of hypothicals elsewhere.

Unless they're Republicans and support Trump. In that case they can go F themselves.



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AN EVIL PLACE

According to Kristi Noem, people should be prepared to prove US citizenship. Because we moved overseas when I was two years old, I have an accent. Ever since I returned, people have called me a foreigner. Usually it's "real Americans" that do so.
In any case, I don't react well.

One time an HR director held up my paycheck for over six weeks because she was convinced that I was in the country under false pretenses. That accent. you know.

One side of my family originally came from the East Coast, another is from the Mid West.
I have absolutely no desire to see where they were from, because there are just too many people in the United States whom I do not want to deal with. That goes double and triple for areas that they weren't from, like the entire South. And ten times that for Texas.

Nah, I don't need to visit New Orleans, Charleston, or Miami. I'm good.

Also, I don't care how they make pizza elsewhere in this country, which is like totally unique dude and a tradition that outranks everyone else's pizza all of which ain't shit. Or their hot dogs. Kan me allemaal gestolen worden.

Kristi Noem represents the overwhelming majority of Americans.
Total Karen bitches.

Also, I'm totally okay with the rest of the country never visiting the Bay Area. There's nothing here you want to see, we have no edible food, we dress funny, talk foreign gibberish, and everything is too expensive. Plus most of us aren't Christians by your standards.
And there is patchouli everywhere, oh suffering humanity!


Stay away.
For the love of Baby Jesus, stay away.


This whole place is precisely like the Tenderloin.
There are depraved criminals everywhere.
We'll kidnap your children.
Brainwash them.
Cthulhu!


The Symbionese Liberation Army, People's Temple, and The Grateful Dead are all examples of what can go wrong when nice normal Americans visit Northern California.
Really, you should head to Texas instead.
Grits.



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