MINOR TWEAKING

What a man needs after dealing with the angry senescent crowd and their entitled relatives in the suburbs all weekend is a nice quiet alleyway with a deep and firm awning, where there is a cafe which has strong milk tea and no venomous karens who would object to anyone discreetly smoking their pipes or a cheroot at the outside tables while waking up in the morning. Keep in mind that both the terms pipe smoker and karen are not gender specific; either type could well be the complete opposite gender than the ones that those terms might make you think. In San Francisco, karens are often pasty-faced young men who are determined to snarf the tofu, save the planet, and hug the whales.

Personally, this blogger has no objections to snarfing tofu, saving planets, or warmly embracing cetaceans of all types. If that's what rocks your boat and twiddles your gizzard, splendid. Just stay away from me and my Algerian briar whisping a strictly medium strength Perique and Virginia flake from Bristol if you are painfully sensitive. They also have milk tea inside, where there is an electric fan blowing for your kind. Bring your own oat milk.

Tofu, planets, and cetaceans are all fine things.

My feet hurt after a few days at work. It's sort of a hot stingy ache, that usually subsides by around late morning. Hot Hong Kong style milk tea is a magic potion, and very good for the mood. It's therapeutic. Preciously few people have hurty feet after milk tea.

The retired member of the judicial branch was audible several times this weekend, a whining string of bleats expressing irritation at the sub continental, liberals, the press, his much more accomplished brother, and supporters of the team battling the local ball jocks in a televised spectacle that wasn't worth watching punctuated by insurance and junkfood commercials. The only part of it even remotely interesting was the last mentioned category. Pictures of melted cheese and meat are sometimes staggeringly delightful, as many of the still lives painted by the masters prove.

The holiday season, as you know, is simply a complicated excuse for cheese. If you have to put up with your horrid relatives visiting from Missouri as well as rainy weather, you might as well have some cheese while you're doing that. A crumbly chunk of Stilton makes your uncle Gustav bearable, and Havarti lets you think that Sterleen could actually be human, if she perhaps did something about both her ignorance and the hairs on her upper lip.


Elderly senescent rightwingers, troglodyte kin from the Midwest, stormy weather, criminals and vulgarians at the mall, Elvis Presley; all improved by cheese.


This would NOT be necessary if there were a cafe which coddled pipesmokers nearby. The deep and firm awning outside is essential, because I grudgingly accept that smoking in this day and age will be mostly outdoors. I am not happy about that.
But cheese would make that better too.



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