At the back of the hill

Warning: If you stay here long enough you will gain weight! Grazing here strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton. And you might like cheese-doodles.
BTW: I'm presently searching for another person who likes cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Sunday, January 12, 2014


Like everyone else in the civilized world, I too am enormously pleased by the triumph that our home-town team experienced in their epic struggle against a bunch of redneck pansies. Or shrinking violets, whatever they call dillpickles with big booties and shiny pants in the Deep South. Never before has something so stupendous been achieved. Paupers will see again, the blind will eat, and little children everywhere will no longer wake up screaming with leprosy every morning.

Huzzah. good show. Oh well done.

From ten in the morning till well-past midday I listened to oaths, blasphemy, and foul language, and endured the smell of sweat, intestinal disturbances, and cheap stale pizza, as the sports fans clustered around the altar and adulated their idols. Primitive orgasmic rites.
They lit cigars in frenzied worship.
They groaned in rapture.
They wept.

Several of them wore lucky garments. They stank, they made noise, and they gesticulated wildly.

These folks are professionals. Responsible people. College graduates.
I can only imagine the reactions in the trailer parks. No doubt the even-far-less-washed classes were sheer terrors, overturning fold-out teevee dinner tables loaded with ranch-flavoured corn chips and mushy fruits, flinging their poo at the screen at opportune moments, and popping the tabs on even more beer before lunch.

Every attempt at conversation was rudely and brutally interrupted by screams of outrage or exultation.

There was not a pipe-smoker in the bunch. Real men don't watch aggressive beefcakes committing hugging acts. Unlike sportsfans, we're not into spandex wrestling as erotic stimulation, all those meaty boys.
Or snarfing stale slices of tomato pie.
While wetting our trousers.
Mimed buggery.

The forty-niners won! Oh joy. And hallelujah.
More of this ridiculousness next Sunday.
The same unwashed lucky jerseys.
And crusty undies.

Again, I wouldn't be surprised if elsewhere in the Bay Area other fans ate one of their own and savagely sodomized a random tourist.
Because their hormones were all a-kilter.
And it felt good.

It's a bonding experience. Rather like playing Iron John.
And sitting half-naked in a drum-circle.
Letting it all out.

Totes magotes!

Yeah, man, I'm utterly ecstatic that they won. Now we'll never have to endure global warming, and the world is in balance again. We can all start chanting 'om', and picking the corn-chip crumbs out of our navels.


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