At the back of the hill

Warning: May contain traces of soy, wheat, lecithin and tree nuts. That you are here
strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton.
And that you might like cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Sunday, July 22, 2018


The juristitialist came in, intending to quietly read the sports section, watch a bit of telly, and smoke a cigar. He had a relaxing afternoon planned, and circumstances looked like they would cooperate.
Unfortunately I was present.

Last week he had waxed effusive, sluttily lubricious, and damned well deliquescent about certain facets of our president which were commendable and credit worthy.

"Was there", I asked, "anything in the last week that might have changed that point of view?"

I have seldom heard such a stream of descriptive filth coming out of his normally clean juristitialistic mouth. Any mouth, really. Apparently our president is a five year old cretin. With an insanely needy ego. A psycho.
Of course, once the man of law had relieved himself, he returned to the theme of this is good, that is okay, and down with Obama the source of all that is bad in American policy, though at least he had added more nuance to the previous week's "nuance". But, having gotten riled up, he was ripe for R the Sub-continental to verbally jab him a bit, and for the next hour and a half I could hear his voice rise and fall as he worked over the Germans, the Japanese, the Chinese, and the Canadians.

After hearing him initially curse Trump I had withdrawn, and kept myself occupied towards the front of the building. But even from that distance it was evident that he was on a roll, and determined to keep on rolling, no matter who entered the lounge. A situation with which I was perfectly happy, but R the Caucasian did not enjoy it when he came in, two others left early, and the mad Irishman correctly guessed that somehow I was at the root of this.

An hour and a half, solid. And more than.

The cigar which the juristitialist ended up enjoying hardly at all because he was too worked up, in case you were wondering, was a Rocky Patel Edge Nicaraguan Habano Toro. Dark, spicy, somewhat oily looking. Esteli, Condega, Jalapa. The smoke starts off woodsy and peppery.
It soon settles in to an almost chocolate note.
It's well made and reliable cigar.

R the Sub-continental was very chipper when he left, R the Caucasian seemed distracted, almost weary, and the Irishman was less than his normal self.

It was a productive afternoon.

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