Saturday, September 30, 2023

INTO THE ARMS OF VULTURES

There are times when the entitled Karens of Marin County get on my nerves, big time, and what I wish to do upon coming home is have warm caffeinated liquids and a snack, followed by a smoke. Alone. Without their nasty voices echoing in my head. I should point out that the Karens of Marin are mostly male, mostly middle-aged, and mostly claim to be self-made men (meaning that white privilege get them in the door, up the stairs, and past the toilet for the menials and peons).

Some of them would never leave Mill Valley. To them, it's the centre of the universe and manifestly where the unicorns will land. Everywhere else is not worthy, pale shadows, and the outer darkness. Possibly with the exception of Tahoe or southern France.

It's an attitude. They really think they are all that.

Southern Marin: ground zero of the cocaine revolution.


"Do you have a bathroom?"

"Of course we do! Consider our demographic: all of them are entitled old farts with bladders and prostates, who won't walk up the road to pee with the hoi-poloi, but would whine and bellyache and then take a leak in the parking lot to protest if we did not have a loo!"

"Gee thanks, you're a lifesaver!"


I'm a ruddy saint is what I am. Plus I provide free psychological counseling. "It's all the fault of your mother, and Fluffy is waiting for you on the other side of the rainbow, so hurry, for crapsakes hurry!" What I encourage them to hurry about is left purposely vague (because after all I'm a ruddy saint).
Instead of going into babysitting old codgers I should have been born thirty years earlier and made my mark in advertising for the tobacco and pharmaceutical industries, which back in the day overlapped considerably. Just watch Valley Of The Dolls if you doubt it.


Reason I didn't was the cocktails. Those three martini lunches. That much gin on a daily basis would have killed me in childhood.



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