ROUND TWO

Sometime back in August and September I managed to offend several people by what I wrote. At least I think that was what it was, because while they all cut me out of their lives, defriended me, and pretend I don't exist any longer, they are too chicken-shit to confront me about it.

Now, while I could hazard a guess what it was, there are too many possible things to which they may have reacted, and all the pissy people are too diverse to assume that they got pissed-of at same thing.

And frankly Scarlett, me no give damn.


To the Filipinos and the two Vietnamese: meh, go screw yourselves and your mothers. To the cigar-smoking couple who finally moved to Vegas: a "computer glitch", yeah right. That's a lousy excuse, y'all ain't even trying.
To the Mexican-American activist: Trump IS like Jayzus, what with being a small-handed bastard with a Messiah complex. So's your cousin, vato.
To the Serbian: Stop drinking that cheap Balkan vodka, loser.
To the Caucasian rap artist: very low intelligence.


Insulting you people was NOT what I set out to do, but meh, whatever.


There ARE several folks whom I would wish to insult, but I never had the lapse of judgment to get too close to them in the first place.


Never-the-less. To the bald guy who moved to Oregon after returning from China: I'm surprised your fetish didn't get you killed, and I am not surprised you supported Bernie Sanders. To the bald guy with nice dogs: you are far less human than your animals, but the very same thing could be said about Hitler. To the Irish psycho who still supports Trump: have yourself checked, you're clinical. To the pie-faced Jewish member of the Judiciary: you may have lost it; possibly your hatred of Obama and adulation of Bibi Netanyahu is like a dose of syph, eating your brain, or possibly you have always been demented with a veneer of rationality. Cheap Burgundy is one hell of a drug. And what IS it with the ethnic girlfriends? A wanna-be Whitey-white thing? To the pudgy Irish American rich boy: you have never grown up. Eventually someone will shoot you outside a stripper bar in Vegas. To the fat lout named after one of the English romantics: you are becoming more offensive as time passes, you are a drunk, and you are likely to die of an unclean disease. To the Trumpite who looked at me like a hurt animal for several weeks after it became obvious that I despised his president: a lobotomy would be useless, there is little left to scramble.

Oh, and to the pudgy Jewish internet whiz: you are as boring as your tattoos.


Now then. To the Italian American artist with expensive tastes: If I wanted to look at what Trump screwed, there are plenty of pictures of Melania, Ivanka, and the entire state of West Virginia on the internet.



AFTERWORD

Shortly after dinner I fell asleep. When it started pouring down outside, sometime around three in the morning, I awoke, and realized that there was no chance of having the last smoke of the evening around tennish, out on the front steps. What with it being hours since then. That's probably just as well, given the potted yutzes that flock at the intersection, and make occasional forays up the hill before walking into things.
They are all vulgar, superficial, and dull.
Besides being beastly drunk.




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