BUBBA JINDAL: A DUCK DYNASTY KIND OF DUDE

This blogger is looking forward to the upcoming presidential election.
Especially after listening to someone last night voicing strong opinions, to wit: Both Hillary and Jeb are corporate stooges, their corporations being their respective parties and the policies that those parties stand for. The Trump will drop out of the race before he has to disclose his assets, and having a history of bankruptcies, the Trump should not be considered a business success so much as a rather limp-dicked failure. Bernie Sanders doesn't stand a chance, alas, and most of the Republican candidates are rather remarkably stupid.

Well, he's got several good points.

He also mentioned a hairpiece.

Donald Trump's dead rat.


I would vote for the rodent before I would ever vote for the rearendwipe underneath it.


One candidate we didn't discuss was Bobby Jindal. Who is probably the worst clown of the dozen-plus to have rolled out of the Volkswagen.
Christie was mentioned, but not Bobby.

Honestly, what can one say about a man who set about destroying his own state? Who converted to a repulsive religion, and may very well have done so because it was socially and politically expedient? A politician who over a decade-and-a-half has managed to fritter away brain cells and positive regard at lightening speed?


About the best that can be said for him is that he suffers from Stockholm Syndrome and a Napoleon Complex simultaneously.


But we didn't talk about him. Good whisky, wine, and cigars (actually, a pipe in my case) are not improved by bringing up sewage.

The next eighteen months will be entertaining.


APPENDIX

My tobacco: Grep Pease's Sixpence, which is a richly evocative relative of one of his previous offerings, namely the Navigator, albeit bolder and requiring a more contemplative approach. Followed by one of my own concoctions; a span of aged Virginias, mostly on the blonde side, with the merest dab of Perique (a dark oily fermented condimental leaf from Bobby Jindal's own state).

Cigars enjoyed, by the other gentlemen: Camacho Corojo, made with a pungent leaf originally grown in Cuba; two Olivas, one of which had a Connecticut wrapper for which the word "creamy" was invented.

All Robustos, if I remember correctly.


The host of the venue where we met last night enjoyed at least two Padron cigars, which are manufactured in Nicaragua. The Padron line is probably the best thing to result from Castro's wholesale robbery of lands and brands among the tobacco families, as well as the exile that resulted. The cigars that Jose Orlando Padrón and his son Jorge make in Estelí are far, far better than anything from Cuba itself.

In all honesty, the eventual lifting of the embargo cannot have much effect on the industry. After a brief orgy with Fidel's whores, serious afficionados will realize that Cubanos are overrated, and return to the embrace of the Nicaraguans and Dominicans.




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