A TELEPHONE CHARGER AND FREE BEER

To my very great surprise I might be considered as having considerable charm, in addition to my commanding (domineering) character. The young fellow who had just done several hours of overtime (first job out of college) listened with rapt attention while I disquisitioned on the Malayo Polynesian languages after first discussing Punjabi Gujarati Marathi and Nepali. This happened primarily because I had no interest in an involved discussiong with a random stranger while finishing my pipe. He had started it by asking me about my sweatshirt (Medrash Govoha), a handsome black number with a football theme.

Medrash Govoha is a Litvish yeshiva which has no sports programme.
To the best of my knowledge. My kind of school.

With my pipe, I looked very collegiate.

He may have had no clue what I was on about, which was fine, because I didn't want him to himself have any chance to go on about anything. Far too often I have been a chance-met father confessor slash therapist sympathetic ear to young men who seek guidance and an avuncular victim. Sometimes it's hippie ladies who are studying to become Karen. So no. Dominate the conversation while clarifying for myself my own conceptualizations about whatever subject strikes my lips. And I happen to know far too much about the Malayo Polynesian tongues and cultures. I'll talk, and eventually they'll leave.


Because the burger joint, beer hall, and karaoke place were packed, my friend the bookseller grabbed a buritto and we headed directly to Miss Vivien's, where we were warned that there was a unique individual on the loose. Who needed phone-recharging.
And, we found out later, beer.

When people dress flamboyantly in a way that reflects their unique and creative personality, especially in this city, it is wise to avoid conversing with them. And I was afraid that she would sit in the vacant chair next to the bookseller, whereupon my skill at driving people away by being even more artistic, philosophical, and faux-intellectual than them would be called for.
It's something I do well. A defensive offense.

The problem was that I was a bit exhausted and feverish. I had been jabbed in the biceps with another vaccine earlier in the day, my arm felt sore, and I was off my game.
So I did not look forward to the fray.

The bookseller is capable of discouraging the nuts himself. But I'm normally better at it, and enjoy being more than they could ever deal with. Plus I have rabies.


Why is it never nice intelligent people who glom on to one, just to enjoy long quiet periods in a safe radius that smells of pipe tobacco? Not talking, just, perhaps, reading a book or a recent copy of The Lancet. Someone to whom one could suggest a cup of tea.

[In the past I would have mentioned Scientific American, Horizon, or even National Geographic. But I feel that those aren't as interesting as they used to be. Geological Magazine and Chemistry Journal are definite candidates.]




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BANANA SUNRISE CHAIR

As you would expect, I showed up far too early for my doctors appointment. One of the first things after filling out the same questionaire as last time was the temperature check. Which is not only to see if I'm fevered and possibly infectious, but also to see if I'm still alive and not a walking corpse. You will be glad to know that I am still alive and it's not infectious.

Then the usual questions and conversation. New thing this time. Three words. Repeat them. And again. Then about fifteen minutes later "what were those words?"
Banana sunrise chair.

Another pneumonia vaccine (肺炎疫苗 'fai yim yik miu'). Plus discussion about vaccines (疫苗 'yik miu'), research funding (研究經費 'ying gau ging fai'), idiots at the very top (高層白癡 'gou chang baak chi'), horse dewormer (馬匹驅蟲劑 'maa pat keui chung jai'), nutrition (營養 'ying yeung'), next year (明年 'ming nin'). And smoking (仲有吸煙 'kap yin').

The three words are some sort of quickie sentience or short term memory check.
Banana. Sunrise. Chair.
香蕉。日出。凳。

Okay. I think I got that.

It's reality in an alternate universe where crazy people design furniture.
Deranged seating equipment, which I now know I need.
I'll accept that as health advice.

There will be blood tests, including checking for antibodies to measles (麻疹病毒抽血 'maa chan peng dok chau huet'), because even though I had it twice (!) as a child, I'd rather know for certain that I'm still protected just in case I encounter stupid Texans, and also scans including CT (電腦斷層掃描 'din nou duen chang sou miu').

Went and had breakfast afterwards; fresh shrimp rice sheet noodle with condiments (鮮蝦腸粉， 配花生醬同辣椒醬 'sin haa cheung fan, pui faa sang jeung tong laat chiu jeung').

Then lit up a well-deserved pipe and enjoyed my smoke.
I'm a good little patient; I deserve it.

Sunlight. Fresh air. Tobacco.


Banana, sunrise, chair.


A happy-hued chaise for comfort while watching dawn.
Fruity Lay-Z Boy. Bring it on.
A smoking chair.



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JUST IN CASE DAY

Ended up at one of my usual places after errands yesterday for a plate of noodles, and some milk tea. And you know something? I'm getting kind of tired with the beastly cold, so this post is more or less a pointless rant about June weather in San Francisco and how much I loathe Republicans and wish to blame them for this. Even though they have nothing to do with it.
That is to say, logically they don't. Though really, they do.

Sometimes logic goes out the window.

And freezes its tuchus off.


But I thoroughly enjoyed the hot cup of Hong Kong milk tea, which was as strong and sweet as I like it, as well as the people-watching during. One of the usuals was there -- his family give him money for dinner, seeing as he's a bit "off" and can't quite manage life -- as well as a young Mandarin-speaking woman with absolutely delectable legs (she was wearing tiny shorts) of which I saw far too much as well as far too little. Oh my. And 'um'.
I only noticed them when she got up to got to the bathroom.
As a matter of principle I approve of that.
It prevents urinary tract infection.

The young Mandarin speaking woman was with two friends, the regular with continuity issues was in no way connected with that, and, sadly, may not have registered the view. Seeing as he doesn't notice people very much.

Always take time to smell the roses and notice nice thighs. Life is much nicer when you do that. And how sad if you were born with minor defects that preclude doing so.

Of course I have to wonder whether she was just incapable of noticing the cold. Maybe she and her friends had come in to stop freezing. Yesterday, like most days last week in San Francisco, was a double underwear day. Plus a sweater over my outer shirt, and a coat. Should I have put my winter coat in the closet? Or should I have kept it out just in case. Yesterday would have been a just in case.


I am certain the frigid winds yesterday were caused by global warming, for which the Republicans are mostly to blame. Along with drought, plagues, tick borne infections, indigestion, and outbreaks of mass vulgarity.


There ought to be a law.



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KNOWN FOR OUR CLEAN EARS

Naturally I'm thinking about my doctors appointment early tomorrow morning. Specifically which pipes to pack in my pocket for smoking afterwards. The tobacco is a given; a blend of flue-cured leaves with a touch of Perique. What we'll probably discuss will be the usual round of tests and samples for the yearly health check, all to be completed before I toddle off to my cardiologist sometime in September. Where we'll do the running on the inclined treadmill and swearing in Dutch, to check heart rate and oxygen levels or sumpin'.

It is polite to swear in unintelligible languages, like Dutch. It keeps the ears of other people who might hear one doing so clean. As a man with a slight hearing defect I am all about clean ears.

Of course, if I were living in the Netherlands swearing in Dutch would be out of the question, and I might have to do so in Esperanto instead. They understand English and French there, have experience with the Germans, and some of them still speak Indonesian (Malay), so there would be limits. The Dutch, as you can tell, are remarkably clean-tongued. Yes.

The Dutch are gentle artistic souls.

We would have never raped the colonies we never had for pepper, cloves, and nutmeg, or brutally expelled the Portuguese from Ambon, Ceylon, or Formosa.

The worst thing to which we'll plead guilty is sending crazy painter dudes to the south of France. We were just being helful. And spreading civilization.

Famous peaceniks like Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King were profoundly influenced by our example. Well, they would have been, if they had ever heard of it.


Anyhow, that swearing in Dutch bit is traditional when you're doing the stress test on that treadmill. They keep increasing the speed and the incline, in stages, while the machine spits out reams of paper with wiggly lines. Because naturally it's a pain in the softer areas, what with stiff joints in the lower corpus and circulatory issues.
I am physically at my best in early morning half an hour after getting up, hepped on coffee, and outside smoking my pipe while sidestepping sleeping bums, strewn garbage, and dog turds. Manfully I stride through the mist-shrouded streets near the cathedral, happily puffing, and not swearing in the slightest despite quite thoroughly loathing and despising people.
What are these other damned early risers doing on my hill? Mine! I was here first!
I am sweet-tempered and avuncular. A veritable Gandhi among men.
Not a word in Dutch crosses my lips.


The rest of the day is all downhill from there.



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THE FULL PLASTIC FUTURE

In my dream I was making money hand over fist selling photo realistic posters of Kristi Noem posing on a puppy skin rug. Wearing tight fatigues with lots of strap-on equipment. To lonesome young men living in basements and trailer parks all over the red states.

And I realized that tastes differ. There's a gradual geographic and economic shift, from posters to action figures to weird paraphernalia, and animebody pillows.

The problem is that I am not entrpreneurially inclined, wouldn't want to set up manufacturing for any of that stuff, especially not in a cut-throat fast-paced market, and would not want to deal with those people.

Or their obsession with cruelty, and pouty pouty lips.


Probably dangerous too. A festering cocktail of Southern Sherriffs, Texas, and delusionals.
With ketamine and meth habits, and unresolved issues.

As well as spin-offs catering to stranger and stranger audiences.


If someone else wants to do it, fine. I wish them luck. They'll be able to retire to Miami and snort cocaine for the rest of their lives, with my blessing.

Little Kristi Noem handbags, automatic riffles, jeeps, and suburban mansions.
Artificial puppy fur rugs. Hairbrushes. Superhero capes.
The Kristi Noem make-up set.


American made, of course. Bring manufaturing back to the U.S.



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NO VOLCANOES IN BREVARD COUNTY

Well, that was predictable. The boys in the back were more repulsive than ever, sneering and whining about the libs. The pornomaster spewed lies and wild theories, the retired judicial chappie came in gibbering angry nonsense and went to the batheroom twice, the evil goblin mutant ranted angrily at the subcontinental, and as for the naturalized citizen, he swore that there would be no more elections ever. So, given that dyspepsia dominated their socializing, I had a fine time. They didn't bother watching the parade but cleared out in record time within minutes of each other. No fuss. No bother. Just disappointment and departure.

Probably to go home and wank while watching Fox News.
As their type is very likely to do.

Fill their Depends.
So to speak.

Please don't picture any of this. Instead just imagine Brevard County Sheriff Wayne Ivey, who has a history of corruption and racial profiling, crying quietly into his grits at the dilapidated greasy spoon diner near the jail, because there was no one to kill graveyard dead.
Maybe there is nothing to live for. In Brevard County.
Life is, basically, pointless. In Brevard County.
Woe, despair, angst. In Brevard County.
Greasy grits. In Brevard County.
Sad. In Brevard County.


Perhaps it's time for some of those losers in Florida (Brevard County) to call up the caveman sex hotline for a good time. Some fevered fetish fantasy involving dogs and chaingangs.

It's a pity that Florida is so flat. No mountains. No volcanoes into which to toss their virgins, literate folks, and other freaks. Because, you know, they really want to. In Brevard County.

Well gosh darn it all, they're worse than all of Texas there.


I've been told that Sheriff Wayne Ivey is drowning out his sorrow by obsessively watching chaingang porn. I've never heard of that. Must be a Florida thing.


Pretty much a nastier version of Placer County.



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HELL IN HANDBASKETS

It was inevitable that Israel would hit Iran. Bibi was just waiting for the right moment. With the United States headed by a pack of dunces, we couldn't be relied on for support or decisive action, which also meant that we wouldn't have done anything to hinder Iran. Our president doesn't want war, and isn't interested in doing anything international where his chuckleheaded administration would end up looking even more foolish.

Peace in the Ukraine? Has not happened.
Pacification of Gaza? Not a chance.
International trade? A mess.
Adulation? Hmmph!

Instead, we have a gold-plated airplane we're going to have to de-bug and rebuild before we can use it for anything other than hauling dung. Plus, predictably, riots, leaks, and scandals.

Our Secretary of State has made crystal clear that the United States doesn't have anything to do with this, we never thought they'd go through with it, we're as suprised as you are.


Plus we've got Florida. That's always a liability.

It's where repression, illiteracy, mass senility, and syphilis intersect.
Home of bluster, hubris, and vulgarity. And cheating at golf.

If the reptiles ever gain the upper hand, it will be there.
They'll hijack the pick-up trucks and golfcourses.
Permanently change fast food menus too.
Make everything chicken.
All raw.


Florida.



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BASEMENT DWELLING GREY STEAK EATERS

It is probably clear to everyone at this point that the Trump regime is trying its very darndest to provoke a dangerous situation in Los Angeles. With Fox News, The Western Journal, The Daily Caller, Washington Examiner, and the New York Post happily egging them on in the collective role of Joseph Goebbels. Or is that Karoline Leavett? No matter.

Worth noting is that the trolls commenting online have gotten clumsier and more transparent. Not all of them are slope-browed morons from places like Placerville, some of them are now pretending to be retired police and security. With no friends. Hundreds of followers. No interests. Hundreds of up-votes. No actual posts anywhere.
Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of likes.

And multiple misspellings which humanize them.

Tech bro nazi symps, in other words.

And a few Christians from Iowa.

Undoubtedly a few of them are in downtown offices near Market Street, agonizing over their lack of a sex life, and why can't they find an quiescent female who wishes to be a trad wife type? They earn enough, they have a car, and the basement, really, is quite comfortable. They'll even clean up and throw away the empty cheeto packages if she comes over.
And they also have gym memberships! They are with-it! Hip!

Plus they have hundreds and hundreds of likes!
Which proves something.



You know, it baffles me that so many people sneer at ketchup on steak. Why is that? Surely adding a vegetable component increases the nutritional value and makes what would otherwise be a boring troglodyte dining experience more complex and nuanced?
As well as contributing necessary flavour and contrast?

It just adds balance and makes food an adventure.
A sound diet is extremely important.


The patriotic condiment.
Ketchup.



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LESBIANS AND JIMMY O YANG

When I woke up I remembered a crowded party in someone's house, with a lot of lesbians in attendance, and major problems with the bathroom involving buckets of water. And a cat who stood above it all, precariously balanced on the waste basket. While frantically hunting for more buckets among the throng of happy wet-footed lesbians I ran into Jimmy O Yang who looked at me like he was severely disappointed, he had really expected better of me.
He pointed at all the buckets behind me which I had overlooked.
You stupid fool, he seemed to say.
The angry cat agreed.

Quasi-therapeutic neural activity is a terrible thing to waste.

In fact, I currently know very few lesbians, and Jimmy O Yang not at all. But somehow I feel that he would disapprove mightily of everything he might imagine me doing.

I am fairly certain that Jimmy O Yang knows lesbians.
Whether he knows that or not.

Some of his distant lesbians probably speak Shanghainese, as he does, so he has that in common with them. None of mine do. I do not know any Shanghainese lesbians.
This is very likely a grievous failing on my part.
No wonder Jimmy is disappointed.

TORNADO

It would probably be great fun to party with Shanghainese lesbians and Jimmy O Yang. The food would be fabulous. The fried eels (酥煎鱔魚). The red stew pork (紅燒肉). The squirrel fish with pine nuts (松鼠鱖魚). The fried thickish noodles (上海炒麵). The stirfried freshwater shrimp (清炒河蝦).

Fabulous food, great company, sparkling conversation.

This is on my bucket list, but the closest I'll probably come is visiting Shanghai someday.



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THE UN-WARMNESS OF IT ALL

It is desirable that I do not doomscroll. For my own sanity. Because everytime I do that for over an hour I wish to go outside and commit righteous mayhem, perhaps on some innocent tourist from the red buthole part of the country. Which would not be good, because it isn't open season on them yet.

As usual I left for Chinatown to rendezvous with my pub-crawling compa, and spent a while smoking my pipe while waiting. There are occasional loonies on the street after dark, as well as far too many visiting Caucasians speaking English. Might be a convention in town.

I'm beginning to understand why Europeans complain about Americans being too loud. Sometimes you can hear them from over a block away. Shrill and brassy.
Kindly pipe down, you horrid blonde cow.

The local Chinese are, even in groups, quiet enough that they have to be passing right in front of you to tell whether they're speaking Mandarin or Cantonese. Or Toisanwaa.

At one point a cute little moppet whizzed past on a child's step-scooter. She smile sweetly at me, and I smiled back. And nodded at her father when he came past.
Sometimes I'm so human I surprise myself.

Often I might seem unfriendly. When out smoking my pipe, especially at this time of year, the chill gets to me even when I'm wearing sufficient layers, especially when there's a fierce breeze on some streets (wind patterns change by the block in this city), and I am often less socially inclined than you would think. In San Francisco, being out on the street at night will expose one to conversational attempts from very odd people.

No, I did not know that we have a government of sex-vampires, nor was I aware that the Bilderburgers are responsible for this. And organs! Apparently this is well known.

I did not expose my ignorance of this, but nodded sagely.
It didn't seem like a vocal response was needed.
He continued entirely without prompting.
But moved further down the street.


By the time the bookseller arrived there were no unbalanced people about, and the burger joint was sparsely filled. The beer place where we headed afterwards was crowded, so we went directly to the karaoke place where there were only two other customers and nobody was singing. After a few moments one of them did sing -- Cantopop, and more for himself than anyone else -- one song only, after which calm returned.

We also dropped by the bail-out bar to say 'hi' to miss Vivien and have some more whisky and tea, then head up the road toward the bus stop for the rid up the hill.

There have been colder nights in San Francisco.
During January and February.




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VERY MOIST DREAMING

Hypothetical conversation, somewhere in Washington: "first we get rid of them foreigners, that's what the racist goon squad (ICE) is for. Then we arrest liberals, vandals, goths, and loud people, we've co-opted the National Guard for that. Then we send in a Marines platoon to clean-up the place and repopulate it with loyal Red State folks and morons from Alabama and Tennessee." "Well gee Bob that's brilliant." After this brief exchange, all the officials around the table feast lavishly on hamberders. Mmm, hamberders!

From outside, distantly, the sound of chuckleheads chanting 'Amurika, Amurika' can faintly be heard. There is adulation, and everybody is happy.


Nothing says 'success' like a column of tanks rolling down Wilshire Boulevard.


The LAPD were NEVER the good guys. Just keep that in the back of your head. And they'll gladly collaborate. Remember that incident where they nearly destroyed a wheelchaired cripple during the BLM protests while laughing gleefully?

They've had it in for the unwealthy ever since the Rodney King riots.
Crowd control is best achieved with flame throwers.
Homan and Hegseth will help.

It's a glorious time for obedience. From Fox News headquarters we can hear, distantly, the sound of chuckleheads chanting 'Amurika, Amurika!'

An amazing day, tanks, planes, all sorts of things! We'll win the war, and we're going to be celebrating big, and if there's any protest, they will be met with very big force. Los Angeles will be burning just like it was burning a number of months ago, we're not playing around.

Naturally, Fox News, The Western Journal, The Daily Caller, NewsNation, and all the talking rutabagas are on board with that. Their reporters are getting soggy panties just from thinking about it.

America loves the sound of boots in the morning, it sounds like victory.
Let's go bigly surfing later. Covfefe!



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TRY TO REMEMBER THIS

If the National Guard use live rounds, it is quite pointless to shoot back. Never take on an enemy stronger than you. Always wear down their support system instead. As an entirely theoretical example, you probably know several Republicans. Also please remember that vehicles and buildings sometimes are, entirely hypothetically, also weak spots. Do NOT, repeat, not, look up where the local Republican Party Headquarters is, and similarly DO NOT think of researching the mating habits of the college Republicans on campus.
Threatening to do anything to such vulnerable targets would be illegal.
Likewise the local affiliate of Fox News.
This is ALL theoretical.
And hypothetical.


Banana for scale.
Contents under pressure.
Terms and conditions may apply.
Consult your family doctor when in doubt.


Also, please do remember that if the U.S. Marines get deployed to the zone, they are your friends, neighbors, and family members. Cherished kinfolk. Any live rounds that they fire at unarmed demonstrators are purely accidental and defensive. They panicked.
They're fragile. This is all very traumatizing for them.

This blogger is a woman of peace, convinced that Republicans intend the best for us, though we may not be able to see it all the time. They mean nothing but good. Besides, they are mostly Christians, and filled with sweetness and light.

The Red States are the real America, filled with pure unsullied people we should respect and cherish, hardworking Fox News watching folk who pay their taxes and only wish blessings for everyone. We are all in this together.


Trump is your friend.


Think about The kittens. And butterflies.
The pretty, pretty flowers.
Peace.



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KITTEN KILLING PERVERT

As a matter of personal conviction, the first amendment of the constitution is a matter of holy writ. And I personally hold that freedom of expression can and should have few limitations. So Tommy Tuberville opining that Governor Newsom should be arrested, while insane and treasonous, is absolutely covered. Likewise, when I say that Tuberville and Alabama are both shitholes, that, too, is protected. But unlike Tuberville, whose freedom of expression may well qualify as performance art, my statement is pure unadluterated fact. Shitholes.
Like so many of the Republican politicians and red states.

Alabama, Florida, Louisiana, Mississipi, and Texas are in fact the perfect paradigms of shitholes. More shithole than that it cannot get. Eleven.

Also, under certain circumstances, incendiary devices are the overlap of the first amendment, the second amendment, and the pursuit of happiness.

Not just a functional tool for lighting your cigarette.
Or getting the backyard grill going.

Please, little butterfly, feel free to express yourself.

You will note that the illustration above is not based on any recent experiences, and does not represent material I currently own. But if I ever visit Alabama, that could change.
Do syphilitic illiterates burn? It's a scientific question.



By the way, there are NO videos of Tummy Tuberville clubbing kittens to death.
Plenty of rumours, but no actual hard evidence.
Might be a tradition.



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FEEDING SOULS

Left for Chinatown shortly before eight thirty, got to my eyedoctor's at around quarter to nine. There is great stability there, next appointment in October. Haircut, during which Ming had a video of a restaurant in the Sunset District (日落區：陳正燒臘飯店。3040 Taraval Street) on screen, featuring Hong Kong style roast goose. I do not think he drooled on my head while he was snipping -- he really loves roast goose -- and it did look delicious.

So naturally after that, despite the early hour, I went to eat.
Needed sustenance before smoking my pipe.
Oddly peckish.


豬肝瘦肉粥、油條、一杯熱港式奶茶。


Pork liver and lean pork congee, an oil strip, and a hot cup of Hong Kong style milk tea. Sik baau la, and wired to the tits when I lit up upon leaving the restaurant. No, I didn't go off to the sunset for eaties, I was in Chinatown and knew a place.

Perhaps I heard somewhere that pork liver is good for the eyesight. Don't remember where. But it definitely is good for the soul, and congee (rice porridge) is comforting. Given that it's not exactly Summer weather (meaning that it precisely is Summer weather) in San Francisco, that's what was needed.

I put on a sweater once I got home.

Perhaps I should take a nap now.



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YOU ARE NOT INVISIBLE

As a long time resident of San Francisco I am of course keenly cognizant of the vocalizations that convince the people around you that you are unstable, possibly a psychopath. Quite a connoisseur, in fact. Muttering 'tuck, tuck, tuck' with slight variations and pauses on the bus, for instance, will cause people to gradually draw away. Also, whispering 'yes, ye-e-es, yis' conspiratorily to yourself will make them vacate the seat in front of you where you wanted to sit, and they had selfishly had plonked themselves into several stops before you got on.

Try it yourself. You will love the results.
Don't thank me, I'm a giver.

Yes. Ye-e-es.

These are things I pondered while walking up the street with my pipe, soundlessly to myself, which was good, because I ran into a former neighbor, whom I do not wish to convince of my insanity, because that's something I am extremely comforable with him not knowing anything at all about. Ye-e-es.

Tuck, tuck, tuck.

Nob Hill at six o'clock was foggy, with glowing streetlights more visible because of brightness than the actual shapes of the buildings. A gradation of pastel hues proceeding up hill. Rather nice with so few people about, not even the usual pedestrians pooing their dogs.

Before loading up my pipe and stepping out I had slammed a cup of strong coffee. I have an appointment with the eye-doctor early, and it's easier convincing them that I have eyes if they are glowingly awake rather than baggy and overcast.

They're observing you right now. Peering, ghostlike, around the edges of buildings from dark sockets under overhanging eyebrow ridges. I can see you.



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THE UNHINGED WATERING HOLE

Last night Whisky Pete and Pedo Don (aka the orange shitbag) declared war on California. So it's only a matter of time before some trigger happy yutz from Placer County goes too far. Thank heavens we're not Texas or Louisiana where every one is an ignorant inbred gun nut with a pick-up truck and a six pack of Coors.

[Louisiana is basically the same as Placer county, just dumber. If you can imagine it.]

Now, while it's tempting to torch every vehicle with a red state license plate on the roads in California, I would beg you not to do so. The owners might be refugees from there, who said to themselves "darnitall, I just can't hack these dumb ass inbred goombas here in Kentucky related to themselves six different ways, I need to get out of here and flee to civilization", and then packed their family into the stationwagon and headed cross country, never mind having no job awaiting them. A doctor, a lawyer, a gardener or restaurant worker. Actual human beings, not slope-browed Bubba with six digits on each hand and foot, and an IQ in the low double digits -- representative of the people in that locale -- and one really should take the time to make sure one doesn't incinerate innocents or smash their car with a crowbar.
Unless they're driving a Tesla Cybertruck or a have a Trump bumpersticker.
Even then, that could just be protective colouration.

Today the boys in the backroom (mostly superannuated rightwing hosebags) spent over half an hour ranting about testicles before the judicial member came in and distracted them with a discourse on constitutional law as he remembers it from half a century ago when he still had a functioning brain. Back when he wouldn't have associated with people like that because he was superior, still had his balls, felt like he was on the winning side of class war and the sexual revolution.

Now of course he's just a pathetic hatefilled old hack, retired, and married to a vicious anticommunist sexpot significantly younger than him angling for his pension.

Think 'trophy wife-piranha'. The type that Marin is full of.



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SMELL THAT, SON? PETROL!

Apparently unleashing an economic crisis on the country wasn't enough, now the pedophile adderall addict has sent the gestapo into Los Angeles. And, as usual, the Republicans plus the media are cheering it on. It will be interesting to see what everyone's least favourite batshit billionaire apartheid-baby says about this. Oh, the entertainment is endless!

And we'll finally find out how combustible government issue body armour is.

These are interesting times.

You know, I've always been intellectually inquisitive.

During the height of the BLM protests members of the LA Police Department were filmed shooting a wheelchair-bound homeless man with rubber bullets from relatively close range so many times he lost consciousness. So I wonder what they'll do when faced with crowds of able-bodied angry people. My guess is that they'll probably be on video beating a legless veteran with rubber truncheons till he has no teeth left. Which will be another victory for America's rightwing Christians, because, well, you know. Freedom! Jesus!

Your favourite moments, brought to you by Fox News.
Go on, have a burger and fries with that.

Trump's birthday parade should be very exciting. Flags, bunting, confetti, and candies for all the thousands of little blonde kiddies. All true Americans are looking forward to this, oh it will be so festive, hot dog sellers in the crowd, balloons, and jugglers! Mimes!

Yes, finally we have a president who embodies our aspirations, our hopes, and our dreams! A man who struggled his way upward and out of the gutter, and got an education that prepared him for success as an astronaut, brain surgeon, and entrepreneur, plus movie and television star AND sex idol the girls love. Arkansas and Oklahoma never had it so good!

Just ask him! He'll tell you.

With plentiful cheap gasoline, everything is possible.
Free airplanes! Gold toilets
Endless golf!



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A BLEAKNESS OF THE SOUL

So Elon and Donald have mutually decided that the bromance is over. OVER! They never want to see the other man again. All that's left is deciding who gets custody of J. D. Vance. Neither want the putz or the couch, but someone has to take him.

The boys in the backroom are still in a state of denial. Which means they've been more than unbearable, worse than before. The member of the judicial branch ranted about the Chinese for over an hour, following which he went on about Latinos. This convinces me that he's irredeemable. I kind of knew that. The others not only encouraged him, but joined in. Repulsive cretins.

On the way into work I ran into an old acquaintance, who was surprised when I described the member of the judicial branch as being divorced from reality, out of his mind, and staggering into senility. Of course, they're all mentally off and morally crippled, which is why they enjoy each others company, vote the solid fascist ticket, and have no real friends.

For Christmas this year I want an electric cattle prod.

Other than about a dozen or so human anomalies, I have realized that the creatures of which am I fondest in Marin County are the turkey vultures circling elegantly over the marshes and disposing of the Karens who strayed into the swamp.

Remarkable birds. Lovely plumage!

And the crows.



For the rest, Marin kan me echt gestolen worden.




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NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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