ROARING BOYS

Being social is vastly overrated. To be honest, I do not wish to get to know most of the people I have to deal with at work, or their wives, kids, concubies, catamites, and assorted baggage. The trick is to know enough about them that one can deal with them without fearing that underneath that goober appearance there is a raging psychopath.

Which, given that many people are not functioning at a premium, is both hard to do and sadly essential. In the case of the old men in Marin, a few of them are psychopaths, but fortunately they aren't inspired, or creatively so. They would fit in, in inbred villages in the Mississippi Delta where everyone is a cousin and borderline halfwitted anyway, perfectly fine.

Yesterday it struck me that one of them is clever at half-assedly remembering facts and headlines and citing them without making a point or developing a thought.
Then wonders why everyone else disagrees with him.

His major mistake is not grasping that he himself is an idiot, and they are evil.

Fortunately his nemesis the retired judical branch was not in yesterday, so while we kept hearing his monotonous droning from the backroom, it wasn't accompanied by any angry petulant whining. The know-it-all bald dog man was there, though, sniping, so the low level pointless and irritating vocal doggy-paddle went on for hours. After the other men back there had spent far too long watchin two halfwits whaling the crap out each other in a televised prize fight, and left to taunt schoolkids and rip wings off kittens. Or get a burger.

Being social is sometimes a complete waste of time.

The whole crew will be in early this morning to watch the game. By mid-afternoon they will be leaving, or picked up by their minders, and it should be smoother sailing till I get out of there.

So, as long as I'm fully caffeinated, everything wiil be all right.
Just scowl and bear it for a few hours.
Try not to growl.



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