A NIGHT OUT

It is a law of nature that when you need to micturate after a night of swilling hot caffeinated beverages the key will not easily go in when you return home, and then be resistant to removal once you have opened the front door to your building. Fortunately, I have exceptional bladder control. A lesser man would be discomfitted.


I am not easily discomfitted.


Despite an entire Marketing Department doing white boy rap karaoke. One of these days that yowling will open a portal. It may very well be the second coming of Ctulhu.

Preferable to white people doing karaoke.
In any case.

I am an equitable man.

The pipe I smoked while waiting for my friend to get off work was a Dunhill billiard, shape 59, Bruyere, from the seventies. Perfect for poncing around the quad at Oxford. Pip pip old chap and all that. My profs would have approved of the tobacco, seeing as it was a nice restrained Virginia rather than the aromatic dreck which Marketing Boys at a Diploma Mill would puff.

If such vulgarians actually smoked pipes.
Rather than vaping.


I'm getting too old to put up well with loud Marketing dingbats swilling fruity mixed drinks and attempting to sing. And, like the Mormon missionaries I had encountered earlier on the bus, they all seemed to be tall, spongy, and cornfed.

And quite obviously out-of-towners.

We left before they puked.



At the precise hour of this writing, I am having chocolate chip cookies, which my apartment mate bought. She's in her bedroom fast asleep right now. My friend the bookseller is very probably having a second glass of whiskey, with some bread and cheese, while rewatching Withnail and I. In which there are bad actors, but no karaoke or Marketing drooges.
So it is well worth watching. I recommend it.



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