I TILT AGAINST WINDMILLS, SIDI HAMID

"Don't talk while playing against him, there are micophones in the golf balls recording everything you say. And please don't mention diapers; he's sore about that."

Retirement, for some people, is going to be very interesting. I can't wait for the tell-all books that will be coming out in the next year, and hope that the authors do not die prematurely.


One of my friends recently likened me to "Raskolnikov of Crime and Punishment, brooding in a small garret and imagining profoundly evil deeds".
Raskolnikov is, of course, a failure. He does not have the strength of character or the courage to carry through on his intentions, and thus never achieves the stature or reward that he feels are rightfully his. He is dangerous, but pathetic. A neurotic and a psychopath.

Also, Dostoyevsky was a shitty writer, and I do not have a sister.


If there is anybody who perfectly embodies Raskolnikov, it's the orange-faced cockwomble, who will soon be irrelevant. His ghastly offspring have no function in this tale, and if they weren't such loathesome creatures one could doubt their parentage. They lack Dostoyevskyan qualities, and are just ambulatory stage props in a way, expendable, repellent, but ultimately useless and undecorative. They are meatless, and seropurulence flows in their veins.

I do not need to imagine any profoundly evil deeds.
The past four years were more than enough.
I'll imagine what tomorrow brings.




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