A BIBLICAL FLOOD

The problem with American football is that you end up with a backroom full of hyperexcited old men, several of whom are proveably and demonstably out of their minds. And you find out what the limits are of industrial strenght incontinence pants, as fitted tightly over the wrinkled grey behinds of the elderly population of Marin County.

The game was that exciting that it was educational.

That, and John pushed the envelope by pouring generously. A very nice smoky Scotch with a lovely pale gold hue and deep fruity peat nose. Being an abstainer (because someone there keeps his wits about him at all times), I merely smelled it, but the clean-up afterwards had a rack of drying glasses worthy of a classy bar downtown, instead of a run-down barn out in the hinterlands beyond sight of the bridges which mark the border between the civilized world and the rebel jungle filled with savege headhunting heathens, Hamas-supporting swine, feral Glaswegians eating corpse flesh, and tattooed savages into miracle honey, apple cider vinegar, and crystal healing.

The marriage of the member of the judicial branch has undoubtedly survived because he has a place where he can scream, swear, rant, and have his foaming at the mouth fits in peace, rather than subjecting his long suffering fascist wife to the ruckus. She's used to rightwing idiots, but even she would cock an eye-brow at his antics if she knew the half of it.

He is, as you would expect, a supporter of the local team.

The very fibre of his being, down to his bowels.

About which we shall not speak.



John, pouring fine peaty Scotch onto these weakminded Marin wreckages, is an evil man. Few of them should drive even sober. They are responsible for eighty percent of the freeway roadkill and ninety plus percent of the dead pets in their county. You're missing a toddler who normally dashes across the freeway perfectly fine every day but you haven't seen him since the game? Blame them. He's flat as a pancake. Won't ever make it back from Sunday school again. Oh well, one less paper plate at the table, and fewer people swilling your diet soda or using up that huge stash of toilet paper that you laid down three and a half years ago when idiot Foxviewers panicked over bumwad. Sad.

The regular 'Scream For The Team and Jesus Tail Gate' won't seem the same, will it? My piles bleed for you, Christian sportsfan. Go ahead, weep. I won't call you a pussy like I normally would. You're a bobcat. A fierce Christian bobcat.
A defiant bobcat for Jesus and the 49ers.
You beast you.

By the way, what was the toddlers name?

Oh, you can't remember it either?

He was born during a game.



By the way: it rained during these past few days. Something fierce. Also, left-over Kabuli Pilau from the nearby Afghan place makes a splendid dinner after dealing with soggy old yutzes screaming at the teevee during the day. Just add chicken koftas and plenty sambal, and have a strong cup of coffee to wash it all down as well as the Amlodipine Besylate.
May cause dizziness.



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