THE BEST OF IT

Learned this morning: Donald John Trump is nearly completely bald (and good lord that is an ugly "scalp"), Robert F. Kennedy Junior is a complete freak, John Wayne Mullin is actually a human being, and more Republicans have lip, buttock, and breast filler than is healthy. But they all stil act like rabid mutant dingoes. And Trump cheats at golf. Obsessively, habitually, and compulsively. And lies about it. Obsessively, habitually, and compulsively. Like he lies about everything. Obsessively, habitually, and compulsively. Which the MAGA faithful and FOX know, admit, admire, and fiercely deny. Obsessively, habitually, and compulsively.

Also, Canada caused massive airpollution in addition to your current financial difficulties, and are responsible for wildfires raging in Oregon and France. But they'll pay for that, oh boy will they pay, there's a plan, and Donald John will build a wall (that they will pay for) and we have won the war. Again.

What I also learned over the weekend is that Jeff has embraced and learned to love his worsening hearing impairment. It allows him to ignore the his harpy virago wife, the mad Irishman, various bald degenerates and the irritating subcontinental, and answer every question with a complete non-sequitur. So it's an asset, not a handicap.


Precisely like longer bathroom breaks, because of Benign Prostate Enlargement, give him much more quiet time. Which is a profound blessing.


See, getting old isn't that bad!

Sadly, when I reach full retirement age, in addition to turning on the pension tap, I realize that I should continue working, so that I don't sit around on my gluteus maximus all day and turn into a cabbage like so many people I know (and have to see when I'm at work), with little more than bile in my brain. Continued activity is good for circulation and digestion, prevents muscle and mental atrophy, and will keep both my dander and resistance to irritating pus-blisters spewing stupidity up and at a proper level.

Otherwise I'd become like Grampa Simpson. Angry and hugely intolerant. Or maybe even that chap in a wheelchair who sits at the corner all day long huffing pot and gibbering.

Yesterday while I waited for the bus to work there was a different fellow with a wheelchair nearby ranting into his cellphone for over fifteen minutes, about how he can buy a soda, he'll give you one, he'll bring his own soda, don't worry, there is soda, don't worry about anything because there is soda, whatever soda, and so-and-so can also have a soda, he doesn't like soda, but there will be soda and everything will be fine, no need to supply soda he'll bring his own, so-and-so can keep his soda.

The person on the other end of the line probably wondered why on earth they had ever given him their number and what they had done to deserve him ranting about soda at seven thirty in the morning. But it might have been his mom.

When I returned in the evening he had been replaced by a hugely bloated woman who was lying on the ground resting next to her double wide wheelchair, bedsores on her thighs, a veritable beached whale. Like a giant larva, pupating.

Possibly taking a break from the event at the Buddhist temple.
Saintly attendees occasionally glided past her.
Hotei in Venus of Willendorf form.
Perhaps too many sodas.


But, you know, I count my blessings. There are many object lessons of what I do not want to become in the Bay Area, and at least I am not in New York, surrounded by high-strung high maintenance neurotics snarfing kosher vegan piza and snarling at everyone.
Man that would be horrible. Truly.



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