EIGHT TIMES IS A CHARM

When I asked Jeff if we had won the war for the eighth time yet, he went off on a tangent about generation Z demanding immediate results it was all their fault young people these days! The dumb shmoo obviously forgot that he's a year younger than me. He took retirement early and promptly turned into a vegetable. Parsnip, I think.

Retirement is wasted on the young.



There's a good chance that that was precisely why he got married again after his divorce. He probably felt that there was enough dullness for two in his life. From all accounts his wife is just like him. An unexciting right wing droodge with a stunted imagination. Maybe she reads less. He's gone through at least half a dozen books since 2020. So for the boys in the backroom, he's a topnotch brainiac.



In any case, it was a cloudy grey day, with precipitation looming yet not manifested.
Leaden skies, coldness, depressed Marinites spreading psychic gloom.
And occasional flashes of remarkably stupidity.
Perfect pipe smoking weather.

The nearest convenience store has a new lunch offering that is dangerously close to being both ethnic and culturally enriching, but does not veer into risque, or actually challenging the bourgeois sensibilities of their clientele. Naturally I had to try it. Quite edible with hot sauce. Oh my yes. Mediocre, but lipsmackingly so. I may risk another attempt in a few weeks.
When I need some excitement in my life. I am not like Jeff.
And I know how to pronounce the ingredients.
Ahead of the game I am.



NOTE 1: Music and thumpa-thumpa sounds are coming from the nearest shopping and drinking street. Of this I disapprove! Young people drinking beer should suffer!
At the very least they should be filled with existential angst.

NOTE 2: You have GOT to stop refereing to our friend as a 'meatball'.

NOTE 3: My apartment mate had soupie-soup with noodles and chicken and fishcake tofu and scallopy things for lunch. She is now in her room reading in bed. It was a good day.



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