SMACK THE FAT MAN

Maybe I should watch more sports so I undestand the language. Because I overheard one of the senile old gentlemen in the backroom exclaim "that sawed it all down but they're just not bicycling" about what was going on between the Forty Niners and the Cardinals.
To which the others all agreed. A chorus of sagely nodding.
I have no idea what that meant.


See, that's the problem. Sportspeak is way beyond me. And one cannot hope that the nasty cretins will talk about cooking, seeing as they're all members of an ethnic group whom the Italians wouldn't let into the kitchen. We Dutch would. We have a sick sense of humour.

Art and literature are also above their paygrade.
They aren't qualified to speak of such things.

Anyway, the Forty Niners won, so they had every reason to be chuffed, and consequently it was a rather boring game. I vastly prefer that the local team loses, because it upsets them, and there is screaming and shouting, and Jeffrey cusses up a storm with such foul language that he sounds like a daemon dragged up from the bowels of the earth who might need to be burned with holy water. He's been retired for a few years, so football and Metamucil are the most exciting things in his life. Neck and neck for thrills.

Much of the time I can't understand him at all.
I am not adept at senile dingo speak.
But the howling continues.

I'm home now. Dinner was two slices of Swedish Princess Cake, and a cup of coffee. You will undoubtedly be please to know that no Swedish Princesses were sacrificed to make it, so it's virtually vegan. As good as. Light and fluffy.


I've also got some packaged cakes with panda icing.
That stuff keeps forever.



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