SAN FRANCISCO LOSERS

San Francisco, for all intents and purposes, has lost its collective marbles. For someone like myself, who regards sporting spectacles with about as much affection as exploding sewers (and indeed they are REMARKABLY similar), the collective creamed-in-panties mood over recent baseball-related events is insufferable and absurd.

If I were an evil man, I would pray for rain.

A few days ago, a friend e-mailed me the following:
"Thank XXXing God that I know I can read your blog without a chance in hell of seeing the words (and it pains me to write this) "Go Giants!" Your words are a safe port in a sea of gibber. Harrumph!"
Indeed.
Pajama-wearing men swinging phallic weapons for an audience of Richard ain't zackly my idea of entertainment.

For all of you out there who are wearing black or orange, you look ridiculous. There’s a reason black and orange are Halloween colours.

GHOULS!

You know, ghouls – the eaters of the flesh of the recently departed. Unclean creatures from darkest myth. Kind of like werewolves and vampyres, but without the romance. Werewolves and vampyres got style! Ghouls? Meh! Daemon-cursed mutants that compete with zombies for food. Urk!

Shouldn’t you sweaty morons be bringing crucifixes and holy water down to the park, instead of pompoms and flags?


The only time people should wear black is if they are wearing a little black cocktail dress. There is nothing quite so visually appealing as a sensual person sheathed in dark silk. Yes.

Which, by the way, is something ONLY charming young girls can get away with.
Let me repeat: CHARMING. YOUNG. GIRLS!

Pudgy middle-aged men shouldn’t even try it. Trust me. Now take that off.

And those orange sweatshirts make your beer-bellies look fat. If your wives and girlfriends had ANY sense at all (not buggery likely, seeing as they picked YOU), they’d leave you right now and go find someone nice who lost nearly five inches off his waist recently, has devilish angular features, twinkling eyes and a trimmed goatee, and is recently single again. Yes.
You know, someone who is a remarkably fine specimen of fifty-one year old man-flesh. All-in-all, a most desirable gentleman – discrete, warm, caring, absolutely hates! walks on the beach.
That type. Yes.


If any young ladies reading this are interested, please write. Snarky or zesty feedback from my audience is always appreciated.
Pen a letter to the author of this tripe here!

There will be no talk whatsoever of sports. None. Bleeeaugh!
Food, champagne, crabs - all subjects for discussion.
Silken garments, books by Nabokov or Wyndham Lewis, or bad habits that are sooooo good. Those too.
Little black cocktail dresses? We can work on that!
Please think of me as a werewolf or vampyre.
Trust me.


I may be a total perv, but I'm NOT into sports.



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