HAPPINESS IS QUARRELLING WITH A MONKEY

It was a lovely weekend. We did not go anywhere.


San Francisco was nice and quiet, the streets between our house and the Indian Restaurant near Japantown were glorious in the afternoon sunlight; dust-motes refracted in slanting beams, the lengthened shade of trees; after several months of gloom we are finally enjoying some summer weather.

So of course we stayed indoors most of the time.

Sunday and Monday I paddled around the house in my bare feet, wearing baggies and a wife-beater, and smoking a tobacco that I will not confess to liking or reveal the name of before I post a defensive review on this blog - It's aza sleazy and kurvedik that it absolutely requires apologesis, despite the extremely reputable company that produced it.
It is not as bad as some of the coconut-peach-mango rum-topf perfume abortions that many suburban tobacconists vend, but it's pretty darn shameless. A veritable brass-pole slut.
Albeit a very fine product.

A pattern became apparent during the day. The stuffed monkey would start making nasty comments about some of the other roomies, and after a few minutes of arguing with him, I would send him to the corner, and head into the kitchen with a pipe for some peace and quiet.

What kind of nasty comments did he make? Really cruel ones. Judge for yourself.
About the sock-goat: "He smells all nanky, la."
About the small she-sheep: "Of course she's stupid - she's a pretty little girlie!"
About the froad: "Nasty green flippery guy."
About the hand-puppet spider: "Him evil - squash the bug."
About the little punk piglet: "Juicy pork!"

These are not the kind of comments a gentleman would make. Nor would a gentleman suggest that the froad has a gas problem, that the piglet could easily miss a limb - she has four ("more than enough for such a lazy creature!"), or that the sock-goat had no feelings because he was inferior and inbred. That, plus his insistence that he himself looked like Humphrey Bogart ("the world's handsomest Philippino"), and that Ms. Bruin had it in for him, would be enough to send any man into the kitchen. Often. With pipes and fruity tobacco.

Ten bowls full.
Big bowls.
Full of perfumy tobacco.

Don't blame me if the kitchen now reeks like a Portuguese dance hall.

It's all the monkey's fault.

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Savage Kitten lazed about reading during most of Sunday and Monday. And occasionally had a snack. Slices of melon, plus peaches, plums, and a large bag of sour-cream and onion chips. She was exceptionally lazy. Which is davka what Labor Day is all about.
I shan't even mention her crazy theory that it is okay to be slovenly on Labor Day because one is rejecting the tyranny of middle-class salary-prompted value-systems.
I have no idea what that means, but it is probably wrong. After all, she's a pretty little...........