THEY'RE ALSO CALLED CATAMOUNTS

Sometimes I hate my job. It's not because of the actual nature of my work OR my employers, but the defectives that cluster there. "The traffic is slow out there", I will say, observing the traffic outside. Which is slow. "What?" So I repeat it. "The traffic is slow." "What?" "The traffic, outside, is slow." "What?" "Slow it is, the traffic." "What?" "Slow out there the traffic is." "What." "The traffic out there, it is slow." "What?"

You will no doubt understand why I sometimes don't say much. Or avoid conversations.
With some people. Who weren't paying attention when brains were being handed out.

Also, my back was hurting when that discussion happened.


And then there was the time where I had to explain that Mexico was not north of here.


I've also clarified that mountain lions do not necessarily live only in the mountains, and no, we're not going to rename some of them because of different habitats. I really must be commended for not addressing that interlocutor as "senile old fart".
It's Marin. People are special there.

We don't have pythons here. Yes, in Florida, which here isn't. Bobcats are not hoppity boppity pussycats. There are no monkeys native to North America.

Most of these men are college graduates. American college graduates. So don't assume either literacy or intellectual curiosity. Not even from the retired member of the judicial branch, because he's rather a dullard and often proves himself an ignoramus.

The neurosurgeon refers to them all as fascists and idiots, and refuses to get roped into conversations with them, but I do not have that luxury.

"No, Donny, these men are nihilists, there's nothing to be afraid of."


It's like dealing with the living dead.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================