Tuesday, December 18, 2018

DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM?

The conversation dealt with Little White Nipple Guy, Tinfoil Hat Stevie, and several other things.  Because I was giving a friend the low-down on my workweek, and the spectrum of dysfunctionals that cross my horizon, but without mentioning the Irish Trumpite, the Evil Hobbit (who smokes Tatuaje Coronas Gordas Negro), or the bald space alien.

Or, in all fairness, whom I should have also mentioned, the gentleman from Karachi, originally from somewhere in India he cannot go back to (very nice fellow, old-school, that generation and that class, now Canadian), or the erudite Iraqi gentleman newly getting into pipe-smoking.
Both of them were sane and very pleasant.


As a San Francisco resident, you will naturally understand that many of the folks I deal with on a regular basis are somewhat dysfunctional.

I tempt the fates.

Daily.


Yesterday I was waiting for the bus to Marin when Chelsea waved at me, to which I was totally oblivious, being, at that time of day, probably in a "fudge all of you" mode. Which, given that that is is the neighborhood where the elderly alcoholic importunes every one for cigarettes and the soup-bowl haircut tattooed fake blond douche bag with his plumber's crack showing frightens little Cantonese kiddies waiting for daycare to open OR elderly Anglicans in front of the church, would not be unlikely.

One can understand what made them what they are now, and even sympathize, but like one's fellow Americans who support Trump, one does not have to like them. Their disease does not sweeten them.
There are reasons for their mental state.
They're still crap.

I like the little Cantonese kiddies.
Elderly Anglicans, meh.



The little Cantonese kiddies and I myself are normal.
Every one else considerably less so.
And some people not.
Remotely.




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