MISERABLE POTTY SAVAGES

Upon returning home from the saltmines the first thing to do is fix oneself a strong cup of coffee. Before wasting time futsing about with briars. Which one did all day anyhow. Mentally one ponces around the quad with a jaunty sandblast sticking out of one's jaw as if taking a deserved break from tutoring nice young things of whichever gender in Latin and algebra. Time for tea, Algernon, and perhaps some sherry!


"Pro amore dei culos meus cruor est!"
------Don Hertzfeldt, possibly a Canadian.


One of the things that stood out today was the retired member of the judiciary, mere minutes after arriving, screaming about anal sex. No, I don't know what medication he's on. It's doing something to him. He's imagining things. Possibly there are ghosts in that backroom, or his marriage to the Vietnamese American fascist butterfly is stressing him out.

In his case, maybe it's continued intoxication from celebrating Saint Paddy's like a frat boy.
Which is a three-day weekend for some people. Especially retired old crocks.
And he was wearing green. It harmonized with his complexion.

Throughout the day I heard sqauwks of vituperation.


I shall henceforth think of him as 'Anal Sex Jeff'.

I myself would drink nothing stronger that sherry, but those boys infesting the back are all adults and have rotted many of their braincells with strong liquor and Fox News, so it's hard to have a conversation with any of them even when they're not plotzed out of their gourds. More so since the end of the football season which can only remind them that they have shallow empty lives and their children actively dislike them, if they didn't drown out their mediocrity with cheap Scotch and Bourbon.

They are cigar smokers. I am civilized. However.


The day ended with a lovely discussion about Rattray's Hal O'The Wynd (a very fine red Virginia broken flake) and Old Gowrie (somewhat fuller, equally good), as well as Gordon Pym (a rough cut mixture with depth and a pleasing Latakia edge). By that time the various constipated fossils in the back had stumbled home, where their nearest and dearest would change their Depends™ for them and feed them prunes for dinner.
Before sending them out to play in traffic till nightfall.



Several of the usual defectives were missing today. Possibly they were hunting bottles of Jameson's hidden in the yard so their grandkids and the local bums don't find them during the Easter egg hunt a fortnight from now, or maybe their kinfolk kept them chained up lest they hurt themselves during idiot drunken orgies. One can but speculate. And hope.


I heard the phrase "Erin go bra-less" several times today.
And I shall not repeat it. It's stupid.



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