REVOLTING WILDLIFE

This blogger does not like hot weather. It's uncomfortable, it attacks my legs and upper back, and it encourages people to dress horrifically. I mean, some men my age should never wear shorts because the world isn't ready for that. I'm not ready for that. Jeff, cover up those pasty damned gams of yours before you scare the horses or a dog bites them. And your calves. And those oedematous ankles.

Also try to sit in a way that does not show us the light at the end of the tunnel

When I came home yesterday I was convinced of two things. The first is that I am a saint, a veritable mahatma, and damned well need to be venerated, having put up with an enormous amount of senile old right winger gibbering, including one dude who wet his trousers without being aware of that. Dang I'm such a perfect Christian (without actually being Christian)! The second is that this is the year that we do the peripheral angioplasty. No matter what.

A peripheral angioplasty on the lower extremities is, according to the internet, an in-and-out procedure. Problem is that they might give me valium to keep me from twitching on the table.

Which means that they won't let me stumble out of there on my own steam till the valium has entirely worn off. They probably won't even tell me where they put my clothing until several hours afterwards, so any premature escaping will necessitate dressing horrifically. And no, I am absolutely certain that the senile old rightwingers previously mentioned were NOT on valium, dammit.

But they should have been.

Dude peed in his pants, godverdomme! And then continued blithely on, totally unaware of the spreading wetness. His car must smell educational and interesting. Why don't some of these crapulent old frowsts lose the way or wander off into the salt flats to feed the seagulls? Why aren't there big brutish seagulls that can get them down and peck at them like they're so much crappy day-old ham and pineapple pizza?

Why am I not licensed to administer valium and stun grenades?



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