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.

Saturday, December 17, 2016

AND THEN SHE KILLED HIS ASS!

Let's just call it girlish enthusiasm. After a long day at the salt mines of Marin, this blogger returned home, where his apartment mate was watching real live murder shows on television. Which, when you think about it, is better than going downtown and shopping at Macy's (open till twelve today, crab your plastic and hurry!) or, something she apparently also isn't doing, namely cooking for her boyfriend ('Wheelie Boy').
I know she'll be cooking for the wheelchair dude sometime this weekend; there's stuff in the refrigerator. The chunks of uncured bacon-like porky fat are not for him, however. He has a sensitive stomach.
Some of those will be used later, by me.
With some stalky vegetables.
And something curry.

Bathrobe, jammies, nice hot beverage. And she's cheerful. Because she is watching somebody's untimely demise, being plotted, put into action, and subsequently analyzed by law enforcement and a narrator.

It's cold outside. Killing someone is warm.


"Graham really wanted his wife dead; everything else was just a diversion."

"Coming up, a simple life turned into unimaginable horror."


"Ooh, this a fab-u-lous, yes!"


That last quote was her. In a way I agree. I'm still trying to get eight hours of drecky holiday music out of my ears. You know, there isn't a huge variety in that category, I've heard the same dozen or so sappy tunes between five and ten times today. If Frosty the Snowman was here, I'd go get the hair-dryer and fry his ass. Santa Claus Lane? Party loudly all night till the fat dude had a migraine. That will teach him to pay attention to every pout, every cry, every little bit of behaviour. Child-obsessed creep.


Still, Christmas will be over soon. Only one more week of this. Instead of celebrating the miraculous nativity of a total fictional storm god, conceived by voodoo, and born under grim portents, we're lauding a fat old guy and his magic mode of locomotion. Plus greed. We worship greed.

I pity anybody who has loads of people to shop for, because no matter how nice those socks or that Toyota, it still won't be enough. Heck, any amount of Barbie Dolls won't be sufficient. Even if you get them a box of 25 Montecristo Number 2 pyramids from Havana, they will sneer.

Check under the floorboards. There's probably a grave down there.
The relatives who went before you? Not good enough.
Just blame the fat guy in the red robe.
He set you all up to fail.

Watch your back.



Oh yeah, I am ready for Christmas.




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