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.

Friday, July 27, 2018

RARE FRAGRANCES

Sanity is a solid night's sleep, strong coffee, and a cigar. Our esteemed president should try it sometime. After dinner last night I went straight to bed, intending to nap for only a few hours. Woke up just after dawn.
Unlike our chief executive, I do not tweet.

I do not have a cell phone.

Epic covfefe fail.


On Facebook last night I discovered that someone accused me of both racism and righwingism. Not someone I actually know, and considering their limited acquaintance, it's rather amusing. I had dared to call South Africa a ghastly hell hole, which could only mean that I was a white supremacist drinking the neo-con kool aid.

Well, it IS a ghastly hell hole.

I cited rape statistics to prove it. For women and children, South Africa is an altogether beastly place. And for several years their government has been dominated by denialist reprehensibles. But pointing that out undoubtedly discredits whatever else I say.


Facebook is its own weird little universe, and I am not much bothered by the gibbering of fools in closed groups there. Nor shall I judge the tightly wound person who was triggered, as the berserk insanity of someone half my age and one quarter my brain who lives in New York is, in the grand scheme of things, not really important.
Covfefe upon them!


COVFEFE, COV - BUGGERY - FEFE!


What really does move me is the memed statement that "Grandpa smells like Borkum Riff". The name of a purported childrens book. From which we can conclude that Grandpa is a frightful pervert with no taste who should be avoided, OR that Grandpa does not know any better and what was a lapse of judgment back in his Halcyon days has rigidified into sanctified habit now that he is old, stiff, and grey. The latter is forgivable.
Old men are, naturally, smelly and deviant.
I myself presently smell like cigar.
It's quite covfefic.


One of the delightful old fossils whom I know actually does smell of Borkum Riff, the Bourbon blend. He's actually a splendid chap, despite his skeevy taste in pipe tobacco, and I shan't hold it against him.
It's just a forgivable eccentricity.
He's British.



I'm sure that if someone ever does write a book titled "Grandpa smells like Borkum Riff" it will be a lovely modern fable. Charming, and simultaneously both sad and uplifting.




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