COME FOR THE MEAT

At the end of the day there are things at the edge of one's vision, especially here in San Francisco. It's either crazy people or fog. Or, worst case scenario, tourists turning blue with cold because they presumed that this was California and wore shorts and thin tee-shirts.
One of the local streetpeople said "hey man I thought it was supposed to be eighty degrees today!" as I passed, but he may have been tuning to the wrong station.
As a great many people do.

This morning heading to work, I could not see the bridge.
In the evening heading home, ditto.

It was dark and gloomy when I got home, though nightfall was still a bit away. The weather forecast for tomorrow is more fog, plus overcast, and gloom. The temperature will hover around low sixties Fahrenheit, fourteen degrees Celsius. Perfect.

It's 'work on your tan' weather.
Use your sunscreen.

As well as your LumberJack Premium Bearspray.
Applied liberally around your oxters.
Keeps J. D. Vance away.

As well as any creatures that resemble him. Of course I may be thinking of the bears on Polk Street. Most of whom are actually decent fellows, who will not try to eat your pets, what with not being Republicans and thinking longingly in those terms.

Most Republicans I know are psychic vampires and alligators, however, lamenting how few golf courses and mangrove swamps there are around here. One of the bastards longs for the Malarial lowlands of North Carolina, where he imagines that more of his kind live, a massive infestation. He may be right. Chihuahua werewolves. I do not know how he came to be. I've heard of dobermans crossbreeding with goats and camels, but I find the idea of a werewolf deciding that a rat-dog was a perfect date hard to swallow, even though those vicious little ambulatory turd machines would be easy to dominate. The mental image is quite distressing. In any case, the Carolinas are his spiritual home, and they are welcome to him.
A balding nasty rabid swamp thing.

Republicans, as is well known, like red, white, and blue nailpolish.
On their talons. It's both patriotic and threatening.
So very very butch, you know.


As I undertand it, the Carolinas are also chock full of cougars.
Apparently they are all like Martha in Baby Reindeer.
And every one of them is named Karen.



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