NEVER ON SUNDAYS

Looking over the memories from ages ago that Facebook thinks I need to revisit, I am struck by my own irredeemable nastiness. I am not a nice person, not family friendly, and excessively mean-spirited. Good lord, I could be a Christian!

Either that or I live in San Francisco.

Oh, wait.....


Item one (over a decade ago): Trying to flag down a cab at 2PM, I realize that most 20 somethings are scum who do not deserve to live. You guys are scum. Utter scum. You parents probably hate you also. Please die.
You are worthless pieces of garbage.

Item two (over a decade ago): Comment overheard on the bus: "you can tell a lot about a person by their underwear".

Item three (barely a decade ago): 1:20 AM: young Chinese woman with highheels, miniskirt, and Saturday night special, walking her squire down the street backwards. Will this end well?

Item four (pre-pandemic): Phone call from a sales centre in India offering me a stupendous deal on Viagra and Cialis, which they were certain I had been taking for a long time. Aside from not ever having used those substances, you can imagine how damned uncomfortable I made the gentleman on the other end of the line. Just because I have a land line does NOT mean I'm an alter kacker with limp dangle issues.

Item five (post-pandemic): An idea so bad it deserves to be made: Indiana Jones enlists the students of Hogwarts to fight Orcs.


A friend who lives in Israel has a nice calm life, with nothing exciting, ever. The closest he's come to any of this is that two mystics dropped by for dinner, per Facebook. Another friend, sometimes in New York, sometimes in New Jersey, has run out of good coffee beans. See, there can be excitement and interesting stuff happening without drunken taxi rides, underwear, guns, erectile function or dysfunction (your choice), or Harry Potter.

Well, maybe not the underwear. Wearing underwear is kind of necessary, as it prevents chafing, and provides an extra layer of protection in case you ride taxis or run into guns, erectiles, and Harry Potter.

I am certain, 100% percent, without a shred of evidence, that both of those friends wear underwear. Often. Probably regularly. And no I'm not going to ask them.

When I was a lad, my mother would tell me that clean underwear was very important in case I ended up at the emergency room. Which was a lecture many people received as children. It was probably the essence of proper parenting back in the day to warn kids to stay away from emergency rooms if they weren't spotless. The take-away is that you do not deserve medical attention otherwise. And, consequently, there may have been thousands, millions, of young people running around scrupulously avoiding anyone in hospital scrubs because somehow the nurse or technician knew that they hadn't been as protestant in their ablutions as both ironclad neurosis and the law absolutely required.
Deathly scared of ambulances too.

Correspondingly there were also fewer taxis, young Chinese women, and bad movies.


Nowadays we know that bad underwear is alright too.
Evil ruffles, daemonic lace, clips and straps.
The road to hell is paved with it.
Oh, the naughtiness.


It is to be hoped that the fellow being frogmarched backwards by the young Chinese woman (with highheels and a miniskirt) had, anticipatorily, put on his best underwear.
The stuff he usually wore on Sundays.



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