Yesterday, while the United States were having their glutaei maximi handed to them on a shiny platter, this blogger was enjoying a lovely repast down in Chinatown at a place where the few customers didn't have any interest in Yankee sportive galumphing. Further down the street, as I passed puffing my post prandial pipe, it was quite different. Loud hoots, outside screens, sweating despair. It was a lovely meal. A quiet place where they know me, good food, one or two familiar faces, and plenty of milk tea.
The world seemed very far away.
So did abject misery.
The pipe is an old Dunhill, bent billiard, shape 56.
Very hard briar. Excellent smoke.
Not the warmest of San Francisco summer days, less than sixty degrees, slight wind. A city with small pockets of sportsfans becoming more and more unhappy as the game progressed. An excellent flue-cured tobacco blend.
Something Simenon might have smoked.
Or Captain Haddock.
Good triumphed over evil, despite Trump and Infantino's dastardly meddling. Belgium won against the USA. Decisively. Romped all over the Yanks. It was 4 to 1. Kicked their ass. Beat them to a red, white, and blue pulp. Thoroughly and deservedly. Les frites ont triomphé des bâtonnets de pomme de terre ramollis. Cuisine sank junkfood. The sturdy Flemish peasantry defeated the force of ghouls, and golden trinkets will be hung in the church of our lady; the beauty and strength of that great army was turned into a refuse-pit, and the glory of the Trumpite rabble made dung and worms. Dung and worms.
Civilization over barbarism.
Neener neener neener. Neener neener neener. Neener neener neener. Neener neener neener. Neener neener neener. Neener neener neener. Neener neener neener. Neener.
Bitches.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
No comments:
Post a Comment