This blogger is does not write computer code, or hide obsessively in his room while his worried parents ( or house mates) eat dinner without him because he won't come down. I don't have a vast collection of figurines.
Nor do I subscribe to pimple creme of the month club, or have posters of fictitious heroines in my closet.
While I respect that lifestyle, like all lifestyles, and recognize that it represents a growing demographic -- one to whom the politicians must cater, if they wish for any hope of success -- it seems far too cult-like and closed-minded to have any appeal to me. It is fascinating, though.
Rather like Vegans and the saintly people who do yoga.
I smell them on the bus, as they radiate.
Their auras are Limburger.
But pure.
On the other hand, like a dog chivying a dead rodent, I am sometimes fascinated by their obsessive and sexless existences. Urban-American yoga, Veganism, and Anime fandom are strange monastic worlds, devoid of any real human interaction or rowdy procreative lusts, where juices are never released and excess hormones leak out through the pores.
Not space-aliens, just your twisted neighbors.
Their slime is all over the internet.
Self-important, and god-like.
I understood nearly every reference in the video below. That does NOT make me a pervert, it simply establishes that once I get hold of a new fish, I shake it till I know every scale. It's called 'research'.
HITLER IS A WEEABOO!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sC0b-RdpDDk.]
My first reaction was "I wonder what Japanese Schoolgirls would look like wearing tailored Nazi uniforms? Probably HOT!"
The precise hue of the material would need to be adjusted, of course, to compliment a different skin tone. Skirts below the tunics, but whether pleated or plain, the knees should be covered.
The term 'weeaboo' is defined on Urban Dictionary, in case you don't know it yet.
Cite:
"A classic example of a weeaboo's presence on the net, this unknown 16-year-old girl's rant about Miyavi:
Gaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!!
OMG! I loooove Miyavi!!!
FYI - all you haters - I saved ALL these pictures!!!
Miyavi-desu...aishiteru!!!!
...so hot, so fine, so sexy, so cute, so funny...*dies* "
[Text credit: u.d.]
Just like with the term 'weeaboo', I looked up 'Miyavi', assuming that this was some cute cartoon critter from an ongoing Japimation on cable teevee late at night, when normal people such as myself are fast asleep.
Yes, that did lead to further delving on Wikipedia.
Zainichi: I had never heard the term.
Konohana: 此花區。
Et autres.
Mehhh, whatever.
NON-OBSESSIVE AFTERWORD
For some reason, many sites I visit are programmed to seed their pages for me with advertisements for cigars. Whether I'm looking at foreign newspaper articles, scholarly texts re-pasted in part on other peoples' discussions, or, yes, Urban Dictionary, there will be colourful pictures of coronos, toros, belicosos, perfectos, cortos, bravos, gordas, torpedos, lanceros; Salomones and parejos, presidentes and diademas.
Along with claro, corojo, rosado, and maduro.
I don't need to look those words up.
I know what they are.
CAPA: ROSADO. BANDA: COROJO.
TRIPA: LIGERO Y PELO DE ORO.
I really think the Japanese need to do an anime series involving young ladies in a cigar factory. Wearing uniforms, but skirts above the knee. Because folklore holds that the torcedoras in old Havana would roll the bunches of tobacco leaves on their thighs.......
I would watch it.
Squee!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
THE NORMAL BREAKFAST
If you want your lou po bing to taste extra good, heat it in the toaster oven. Or in an ungreased skillet also can. But that presumes that you bought more than just one and took it home, and that there is sweetened condensed milk on the premises, so that you can enjoy it with a cup of Hong Kong style milk tea.
I am, as you have probably guessed, not a breakfast person. For me the process of facing the day starts with a cup of strong coffee on an empty stomach, followed by a smoke, and cruising into the internet for news.
This is hard to manage when you live with a fervent non-smoker, such as my apartment mate, who is a morning person besides.
Because she is full of piss-and-vinegar at the break of dawn, many of the stuffed animals in the apartment are so also at that hour. I can hear their voices from her room, gaily disputing primacy and who outranks whom, as I blearily open my eyes while pretending that I am still able to sleep.
Eventually there are crashing sounds from the kitchen.
Plus the sizzle of something frying.
There have been times when she started the day by sauteing pork chops. Good for over rice with some soy sauce, garlic, ginger, and butter. Then she'll head to the teevee room to scarf down her breakfast while watching trashy shows on the boob-tube.
At six o'clock in the morning.
Women are cute when they're eating.
If ever I have a girlfriend, she'll do that too.
Whether that will increase the racket every A.M. remains to be seen.
I greatly fear it will; many more voices.
I shall have to hide.
I'll be under the bed, if anyone wants to find me.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I am, as you have probably guessed, not a breakfast person. For me the process of facing the day starts with a cup of strong coffee on an empty stomach, followed by a smoke, and cruising into the internet for news.
This is hard to manage when you live with a fervent non-smoker, such as my apartment mate, who is a morning person besides.
Because she is full of piss-and-vinegar at the break of dawn, many of the stuffed animals in the apartment are so also at that hour. I can hear their voices from her room, gaily disputing primacy and who outranks whom, as I blearily open my eyes while pretending that I am still able to sleep.
Eventually there are crashing sounds from the kitchen.
Plus the sizzle of something frying.
There have been times when she started the day by sauteing pork chops. Good for over rice with some soy sauce, garlic, ginger, and butter. Then she'll head to the teevee room to scarf down her breakfast while watching trashy shows on the boob-tube.
At six o'clock in the morning.
Women are cute when they're eating.
If ever I have a girlfriend, she'll do that too.
Whether that will increase the racket every A.M. remains to be seen.
I greatly fear it will; many more voices.
I shall have to hide.
I'll be under the bed, if anyone wants to find me.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
WHERE THE MONSTERS LIVE
Doing research on the internet is sometimes confounded by the presence of another person in the teevee room who is doing her own research, with the boob tube turned on for background noise.
She reacts to the programme.
I don't.
I react to her.
Commercials quirk her curiosity.
Her question: "Why is it that all these men with big families seem to live in Middle America?"
My answer: "Because that's where the Mormons live."
On second thought, that may not be entirely accurate. That's also where housing is cheaper than here, and many high school graduates have never heard of birth control.
What I want to know is why they all look like glandular freaks.
Growth hormones in the food?
Burgers?
Real people are NOT taller than five feet nine inches!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
She reacts to the programme.
I don't.
I react to her.
Commercials quirk her curiosity.
Her question: "Why is it that all these men with big families seem to live in Middle America?"
My answer: "Because that's where the Mormons live."
On second thought, that may not be entirely accurate. That's also where housing is cheaper than here, and many high school graduates have never heard of birth control.
What I want to know is why they all look like glandular freaks.
Growth hormones in the food?
Burgers?
Real people are NOT taller than five feet nine inches!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I DON'T DO ALL MY LAUNDRY NAKED!
Being, as you know, a crusty old fart of mature age, I think I'm entitled to do whatever I please, even if it isn't exactly what the youthful and bourgeois public considers proper. Wherefore I frequently run around but-naked doing my laundry.
Though NOT all the time.
Did you know that black boxer shorts are 'slimming'?
Perhaps I should explain. No, I do not wander up to the laundromat two blocks away wearing nothing but a bag of dirty undies. Whenever I'm there, I am fully clothed, and probably ignoring you.
What I refer to are the times when I don't feel like shlepping.
When I'll do one or two items in the sink.
Yesterday, an hour after washing myself, I decided to soak my pants in the bathtub. Bit of hot water, splash of bleach, splash of Woolite.
Yes, nudity was involved.
It seemed like a good idea, given that I splash.
Clean clothes are energetic business.
They're in the nature of being dungarees. No need to press them, and they're perfect for working days, when I'm around abrasives and huge amounts of combustibles. Comfy, though a bit worn.
Much like the man wearing them.
Crusty old farts can do whatever they want.
It's not like anyone will pet us.
We bite.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Though NOT all the time.
Did you know that black boxer shorts are 'slimming'?
Perhaps I should explain. No, I do not wander up to the laundromat two blocks away wearing nothing but a bag of dirty undies. Whenever I'm there, I am fully clothed, and probably ignoring you.
What I refer to are the times when I don't feel like shlepping.
When I'll do one or two items in the sink.
Yesterday, an hour after washing myself, I decided to soak my pants in the bathtub. Bit of hot water, splash of bleach, splash of Woolite.
Yes, nudity was involved.
It seemed like a good idea, given that I splash.
Clean clothes are energetic business.
They're in the nature of being dungarees. No need to press them, and they're perfect for working days, when I'm around abrasives and huge amounts of combustibles. Comfy, though a bit worn.
Much like the man wearing them.
Crusty old farts can do whatever they want.
It's not like anyone will pet us.
We bite.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, January 12, 2015
FISH DINNER IN SAN FRANCISCO
Years ago I lived in a residential hotel in North Beach, which had very thin walls. For a brief four month period, my immediate next door neighbor, whose window opened onto the same airwell, was a blonde woman with big hooters and an ever-changing roster of partners.
Most of her boyfriends were nice men. Bland, inoffensive (except for their affection for sports on teevee) and altogether regular guys.
Consequently I cannot remember any of them at all.
Her, however, I do remember. Oh boy yes.
No, not because of her hooters.
In actual fact, while like many males I do like hooters, they are not the be-all and end-all of a woman's personality. If the hooters exist, that is enough. The possessatrice of said appurtenances should above all have something to say, and say it well. Crucially, there has to be something there to keep you wide awake; not bore you into a coma.
That said, enormous hooters are somewhat ghastly.
Big-breastedness is such a butch thing.
Elderly old farts in a sauna.
Sumo wrestlers.
Now, having seeded your mind with that appalling mental image, I wish to mention her sexual habits. Which I presume were quite normal, and very healthy, judging by the sound effects.
SOMEONE SHUT THAT WOMAN UP!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nv1MG_ya7lY.]
Precisely so.
Possible humorous comment: people who live in glass (or cardboard) houses shouldn't throw screaming sex.
Sad, but true.
I heard that nearly every evening. Consequently I would often hang out at the Caffè Trieste, or City Lights Bookstore after work. Most of the time, she and her paramours would be simply mumbling at each other by midnight, so the rest of us could get some sleep.
Watching that video reminded me of those days.
It also reminded me how stultifyingly uninspirational conversation with many of the North Beach "intellectuals" can be, such as the creative types who often infest the Trieste or City Lights, both of which are exceptionally fine establishments despite the vampires.
If you are visiting San Francisco, do go to both of those places.
Just refrain from getting roped into conversation.
And don't have sex with the patrons.
I seldom go to either place these days.
Conversationally, I have improved.
I never liked screaming.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Most of her boyfriends were nice men. Bland, inoffensive (except for their affection for sports on teevee) and altogether regular guys.
Consequently I cannot remember any of them at all.
Her, however, I do remember. Oh boy yes.
No, not because of her hooters.
In actual fact, while like many males I do like hooters, they are not the be-all and end-all of a woman's personality. If the hooters exist, that is enough. The possessatrice of said appurtenances should above all have something to say, and say it well. Crucially, there has to be something there to keep you wide awake; not bore you into a coma.
That said, enormous hooters are somewhat ghastly.
Big-breastedness is such a butch thing.
Elderly old farts in a sauna.
Sumo wrestlers.
Now, having seeded your mind with that appalling mental image, I wish to mention her sexual habits. Which I presume were quite normal, and very healthy, judging by the sound effects.
SOMEONE SHUT THAT WOMAN UP!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nv1MG_ya7lY.]
Precisely so.
Possible humorous comment: people who live in glass (or cardboard) houses shouldn't throw screaming sex.
Sad, but true.
I heard that nearly every evening. Consequently I would often hang out at the Caffè Trieste, or City Lights Bookstore after work. Most of the time, she and her paramours would be simply mumbling at each other by midnight, so the rest of us could get some sleep.
Watching that video reminded me of those days.
It also reminded me how stultifyingly uninspirational conversation with many of the North Beach "intellectuals" can be, such as the creative types who often infest the Trieste or City Lights, both of which are exceptionally fine establishments despite the vampires.
If you are visiting San Francisco, do go to both of those places.
Just refrain from getting roped into conversation.
And don't have sex with the patrons.
I seldom go to either place these days.
Conversationally, I have improved.
I never liked screaming.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, January 11, 2015
DELICIOUS MIDDLE-AGED MAN
My misguided apartment mate once said: "whenever I smell something funny I wonder if it's you, or my sneakers". It's always the latter, why does she not understand that?
I am a pipe smoker, ergo I do not smell 'funny'.
I smell good.
Oh, there's also a hint of cigar in the mix, as well as warm caffeinated beverages, and sometimes cleaning fluid. Tar, woodsmoke, sealing wax.
Ink both Chinese and Indian. All in all, I smell so darn delicious I'm surprised that a large spectrum of womanhood, from teenage girl to retired matron, isn't following me at all times, drooling and panting.
I blame the modern age for this sad state of affairs.
As well as many new forms of technology.
WHENEVER I SMELL SOMETHING FUNNY, IT'S YOUR SNEAKERS
It probably doesn't surprise you that I still possess a typewriter, as well as a couple of sliderules. Marvelous things, sliderules... perfect for flicking a spitwad at the back of someone's head in class.
In addition to smelling wonderful (albeit slightly old-school), I am also adept at looking innocent. Not studiously innocent. Not pretend innocent. Genuinely and honestly innocent. Forthright, sincere. Sweet.
Nope, no idea where that wet clump came flying from.
Maybe it was space aliens?
Unlike nearly everyone else, I always did exceptionally well in classes that required a sliderule.
So, in answer to your question, it must be her sneakers.
Feel free to sniff me.
AFTER THOUGHT
If you were lucky enough to smell me today, you would have had a real treat. You see, I hurriedly tossed the wrong tobacco pouch into my Hello Kitty backpack as I was leaving the house, and didn't discover till after the noon bell that instead of a nice super-aged blonde flake I had crumbs of a stale Latakia mixture that I cannot even remember with me.
So perforce I made use of sample tins that were laying around.
Smoked three bowls during the day.
SPILLMAN MIXTURE SMOKING TOBACCO
E. Hoffman Company
Latakia, Turkish, Virginia, and a bit of Burley.
A medium English-style mixture, the Latakia made more interesting and complex by its interaction with the Burley. Some have described this as strongly suggestive of wet dog, as well as a remarkably dirty American.
I rather like it. Thoroughly enjoyed expelling the smoke through my nose. Alpha terpineols, fragrant and soothing.
Resinous, sooty, slightly sweet.
I can see myself in a different universe having a can of this around at all times.
Anyhow, I emptied out the crap that was in my pouch and replaced it with Spillman. It should be a good week.
4TH. GENERATION 1855 (ERIK PETER'S BLEND)
Stokkebye (Scandinavian Tobacco), made in Denmark.
A broken flake compose of blonde Virginias, with little complexity. But a very pleasant and enjoyable smoke, of which I am rather fond. So far I've depleted that tin by nearly half over the past month or two, and I intend to finish it off. That's largely why there is a sample tin.
Sweet, with a lucious note of fruity carotenoids.
Ionones, damascones and damascenones.
CAPSTAN, BLUE AND YELLOW
Then, when 'R' came in to learn how to smoke a pipe, precisely like his favourite author (J. R. Tolkien), I sniffed the Capstan Original Navy Cut (blue) that he had acquired, and promptly felt the urge to purchase a tin myself. Specifically, Capstan Gold Navy Cut (yellow), ready rubbed.
A very good decision. It has that sweetness and herbal perfumy quality one seeks in a blonde flake. The cut is pleasing, not too thin, nor too moist, and the broken flake needs very little further rubbing out.
Altogether a delightful half hour indulgence.
I didn't eat lunch till after five o'clock.
Breakfast, if you think about it.
But I swilled buckets of tea since early morning, so everything was fine.
It has been a very lovely day.
There are lovely fragrances adhering to me.
Complex, woodsy, and herbal.
I am a nosegay.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I am a pipe smoker, ergo I do not smell 'funny'.
I smell good.
Oh, there's also a hint of cigar in the mix, as well as warm caffeinated beverages, and sometimes cleaning fluid. Tar, woodsmoke, sealing wax.
Ink both Chinese and Indian. All in all, I smell so darn delicious I'm surprised that a large spectrum of womanhood, from teenage girl to retired matron, isn't following me at all times, drooling and panting.
I blame the modern age for this sad state of affairs.
As well as many new forms of technology.
WHENEVER I SMELL SOMETHING FUNNY, IT'S YOUR SNEAKERS
It probably doesn't surprise you that I still possess a typewriter, as well as a couple of sliderules. Marvelous things, sliderules... perfect for flicking a spitwad at the back of someone's head in class.
In addition to smelling wonderful (albeit slightly old-school), I am also adept at looking innocent. Not studiously innocent. Not pretend innocent. Genuinely and honestly innocent. Forthright, sincere. Sweet.
Nope, no idea where that wet clump came flying from.
Maybe it was space aliens?
Unlike nearly everyone else, I always did exceptionally well in classes that required a sliderule.
So, in answer to your question, it must be her sneakers.
Feel free to sniff me.
AFTER THOUGHT
If you were lucky enough to smell me today, you would have had a real treat. You see, I hurriedly tossed the wrong tobacco pouch into my Hello Kitty backpack as I was leaving the house, and didn't discover till after the noon bell that instead of a nice super-aged blonde flake I had crumbs of a stale Latakia mixture that I cannot even remember with me.
So perforce I made use of sample tins that were laying around.
Smoked three bowls during the day.
SPILLMAN MIXTURE SMOKING TOBACCO
E. Hoffman Company
Latakia, Turkish, Virginia, and a bit of Burley.
A medium English-style mixture, the Latakia made more interesting and complex by its interaction with the Burley. Some have described this as strongly suggestive of wet dog, as well as a remarkably dirty American.
I rather like it. Thoroughly enjoyed expelling the smoke through my nose. Alpha terpineols, fragrant and soothing.
Resinous, sooty, slightly sweet.
I can see myself in a different universe having a can of this around at all times.
Anyhow, I emptied out the crap that was in my pouch and replaced it with Spillman. It should be a good week.
4TH. GENERATION 1855 (ERIK PETER'S BLEND)
Stokkebye (Scandinavian Tobacco), made in Denmark.
A broken flake compose of blonde Virginias, with little complexity. But a very pleasant and enjoyable smoke, of which I am rather fond. So far I've depleted that tin by nearly half over the past month or two, and I intend to finish it off. That's largely why there is a sample tin.
Sweet, with a lucious note of fruity carotenoids.
Ionones, damascones and damascenones.
CAPSTAN, BLUE AND YELLOW
Then, when 'R' came in to learn how to smoke a pipe, precisely like his favourite author (J. R. Tolkien), I sniffed the Capstan Original Navy Cut (blue) that he had acquired, and promptly felt the urge to purchase a tin myself. Specifically, Capstan Gold Navy Cut (yellow), ready rubbed.
From this blog: https://dutchpipesmoker.wordpress.com/.
A very good decision. It has that sweetness and herbal perfumy quality one seeks in a blonde flake. The cut is pleasing, not too thin, nor too moist, and the broken flake needs very little further rubbing out.
Altogether a delightful half hour indulgence.
I didn't eat lunch till after five o'clock.
Breakfast, if you think about it.
But I swilled buckets of tea since early morning, so everything was fine.
It has been a very lovely day.
There are lovely fragrances adhering to me.
Complex, woodsy, and herbal.
I am a nosegay.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, January 10, 2015
CALL THE POUND! MY SPIRIT ANIMAL GOT LOOSE!
According to several people in Marin, the temporary closure of the Golden Gate Bridge this weekend is terrible, because it means that San Francisco is cut-off and isolated. Let that sink in for a moment.
First off, the buses between Marin County and the city are still running. They are permitted through, despite the closure.
Secondly, if only we were isolated.
No Marinites for two days.
Yippee!
In any case, the venereal disease infection rates in San Francisco will briefly plummet.
I should also mention that San Francisco has way more chocolate than Marin County.
Chocolate, as everybody knows, is the sure-fire cure for a major post-evening-meal cookie binge. All of a sudden you no longer compulsively consume all of the Danish butter cookies within sight.
You must have more chocolate.
Meat, gluten, highly refined sugar.
Dinner of champions.
While we are isolated, and the wheat-grass and tofu crowd cannot come to spread civilization, we temporarily enjoy Sobriety and Common-sense.
And eat all the chocolate.
They really ought to close the bridge more often.
A man, and a city, could get used to this.
We are liberated, and at peace.
Quite isolated and alone.
If you say so.
Let us float away before they re-connect us.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
First off, the buses between Marin County and the city are still running. They are permitted through, despite the closure.
Secondly, if only we were isolated.
No Marinites for two days.
Yippee!
In any case, the venereal disease infection rates in San Francisco will briefly plummet.
I should also mention that San Francisco has way more chocolate than Marin County.
Chocolate, as everybody knows, is the sure-fire cure for a major post-evening-meal cookie binge. All of a sudden you no longer compulsively consume all of the Danish butter cookies within sight.
You must have more chocolate.
Meat, gluten, highly refined sugar.
Dinner of champions.
While we are isolated, and the wheat-grass and tofu crowd cannot come to spread civilization, we temporarily enjoy Sobriety and Common-sense.
And eat all the chocolate.
They really ought to close the bridge more often.
A man, and a city, could get used to this.
We are liberated, and at peace.
Quite isolated and alone.
If you say so.
Let us float away before they re-connect us.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, January 09, 2015
YOUR PADDED CELL AWAITS, MA'AM
Even though I've carefully sifted my Facebook friends to weed out those who thoughtlessly disseminate hate, bigotry, racism, or Christianity, there are still a few whom I like but really wish wouldn't post links to articles. Primarily because some articles (many of them) are wingnut magnets.
The comments underneath those essays are mostly by people who are utterly insane, and whom rational society would do well to avoid: the loony fringe, the piranhas of society, the rabid monsters who cannot speak reasonably and sensibly but gibber, and the slope-browed hairy-palmed bug-eyed cretins in the basement.
People whom you would throw out of the bar, if they made the mistake of opening their pieholes in public.
Consider this wonderful screed:
pathetic response as usual from the grifter in the WH, who wouldn’t care even if there were a pile of dead bodies outside the oval office.
if this guy is not a mental case then there are no mental cases.
all this time that Jews have been targeted with these vile attacks the paralytic world “leaders” make sure to equivicate to save t heir own skanky stinking skins. this leaves Israel alone on the front lines to defend all of western civilization.
france is dreyfus and vichy and train stations and their
filthy collaborators. the frogs are a slimy bunch always have been. with the exception of the french Jews i don’t care what happens to them. they’re already in the abyss.
---judithg, January 7, 2015, 9:00 pm
[SOURCE: http://www.algemeiner.com/2015/01/07/car-explodes-outside-paris-synagogue-hours-after-magazine-attack-developing/.]
Normally I do not bother reading the algemeiner, as it serves much the same purpose as Brigitte Gabriel and Fox News: riling up the moron fringe and inspiring paranoia. Those three entities (the algemeiner, Ms. Brigitte Gabriel, and Fox News) are the exact moral equivalents of Jihadi internet hate sites, except with a different target audience.
And to a certain extent, they've succeeded in their aim.
Judith G has completely lost her marbles.
She may never have had them.
But they're gone now.
Many of the other comments there are equally berserk, but do not foam quite so stream-of-consciousnessly. She requires medication, and someone should pursuade her to step away from the keyboard.
* * * * *
By the way, not everything is the fault of Obama.
Nor is everything a Jewish cause, OR plot.
Or even related to Israel.
Nor Islam.
Can't all of you damned ignorant loonies please return to blaming the Freemasons and the Pope for everything?
And take your medications. Please take your medications!
Feel free to take too much of the medications.
We much prefer you comatose.
Or ice cold.
AFTERWORD
Thanks to Benjamin, who is a very nice man, and could not possibly realize that providing a link to that venomous comment string would get my dander up, I shall resolve to henceforth not read any article from the algemeiner, much like I already avoid the Jerusalem Post, Christians United for Israel, The New York Post, Jewsnewsco ("Jews News"), and several other rather repulsive or spammatic sites.
No, I shan't mention this to him.
He means well.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The comments underneath those essays are mostly by people who are utterly insane, and whom rational society would do well to avoid: the loony fringe, the piranhas of society, the rabid monsters who cannot speak reasonably and sensibly but gibber, and the slope-browed hairy-palmed bug-eyed cretins in the basement.
People whom you would throw out of the bar, if they made the mistake of opening their pieholes in public.
Consider this wonderful screed:
pathetic response as usual from the grifter in the WH, who wouldn’t care even if there were a pile of dead bodies outside the oval office.
if this guy is not a mental case then there are no mental cases.
all this time that Jews have been targeted with these vile attacks the paralytic world “leaders” make sure to equivicate to save t heir own skanky stinking skins. this leaves Israel alone on the front lines to defend all of western civilization.
france is dreyfus and vichy and train stations and their
filthy collaborators. the frogs are a slimy bunch always have been. with the exception of the french Jews i don’t care what happens to them. they’re already in the abyss.
---judithg, January 7, 2015, 9:00 pm
[SOURCE: http://www.algemeiner.com/2015/01/07/car-explodes-outside-paris-synagogue-hours-after-magazine-attack-developing/.]
Normally I do not bother reading the algemeiner, as it serves much the same purpose as Brigitte Gabriel and Fox News: riling up the moron fringe and inspiring paranoia. Those three entities (the algemeiner, Ms. Brigitte Gabriel, and Fox News) are the exact moral equivalents of Jihadi internet hate sites, except with a different target audience.
And to a certain extent, they've succeeded in their aim.
Judith G has completely lost her marbles.
She may never have had them.
But they're gone now.
Many of the other comments there are equally berserk, but do not foam quite so stream-of-consciousnessly. She requires medication, and someone should pursuade her to step away from the keyboard.
* * * * *
By the way, not everything is the fault of Obama.
Nor is everything a Jewish cause, OR plot.
Or even related to Israel.
Nor Islam.
Can't all of you damned ignorant loonies please return to blaming the Freemasons and the Pope for everything?
And take your medications. Please take your medications!
Feel free to take too much of the medications.
We much prefer you comatose.
Or ice cold.
AFTERWORD
Thanks to Benjamin, who is a very nice man, and could not possibly realize that providing a link to that venomous comment string would get my dander up, I shall resolve to henceforth not read any article from the algemeiner, much like I already avoid the Jerusalem Post, Christians United for Israel, The New York Post, Jewsnewsco ("Jews News"), and several other rather repulsive or spammatic sites.
No, I shan't mention this to him.
He means well.
==========================================================================
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==========================================================================
Thursday, January 08, 2015
PETA, GET LOST!
In a striking victory for culinary free-speech, foie gras is finally back. Yesterday U.S. District Judge Stephen Wilson ruled that the ridiculous California prohibition against foie gras encroached upon the regulatory turf of the Feds.
Predictably, the twisted gits at P.E.T.A took offense.
Lets not talk of their criminal tendencies.
Or threats against scientists.
Past behaviour.
P.E.T.A. now stands for the full enfranchisement of geese.
And against cuisine in all its forms.
"IT GOES ON THE MENU TONIGHT!"
PETA attorney Matthew Strugar pretty much blew his gasket. Or shat his pants. He may have been the only one gnashing his teeth instead of drooling, as chefs and restaurateurs all across the Bay Area uncorked champagne and prepared for a new golden age.
Quote:
"Wednesday’s decision was based on the federal Poultry Products Inspections Act, which regulates the sale and distribution of birds and expressly prohibits states from imposing certain conditions on food. Wilson said California’s foie gras ban had done just that."
SOURCE: California foie gras ban struck down - SF Gate.
For those who are curious, foie gras is about forty dollars per pound, and worth every penny.
PASTY FACED COOKING
The reason why you never see foie gras paired with wheatgrass, tofu, or quinoa, is that those things taste like sh*t when cooked by white people. Why waste good stuff on a forlorn hope of making muck taste edible?
Folks, let's toss that slop into the garbage pail of food history, and celebrate our new freedom.
I'm thinking bacon, veal, and braised Bambi.
With a puree of green mango.
And buttered toast.
Yum.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Predictably, the twisted gits at P.E.T.A took offense.
Lets not talk of their criminal tendencies.
Or threats against scientists.
Past behaviour.
P.E.T.A. now stands for the full enfranchisement of geese.
And against cuisine in all its forms.
"IT GOES ON THE MENU TONIGHT!"
PETA attorney Matthew Strugar pretty much blew his gasket. Or shat his pants. He may have been the only one gnashing his teeth instead of drooling, as chefs and restaurateurs all across the Bay Area uncorked champagne and prepared for a new golden age.
Quote:
"Wednesday’s decision was based on the federal Poultry Products Inspections Act, which regulates the sale and distribution of birds and expressly prohibits states from imposing certain conditions on food. Wilson said California’s foie gras ban had done just that."
SOURCE: California foie gras ban struck down - SF Gate.
For those who are curious, foie gras is about forty dollars per pound, and worth every penny.
PASTY FACED COOKING
The reason why you never see foie gras paired with wheatgrass, tofu, or quinoa, is that those things taste like sh*t when cooked by white people. Why waste good stuff on a forlorn hope of making muck taste edible?
Folks, let's toss that slop into the garbage pail of food history, and celebrate our new freedom.
I'm thinking bacon, veal, and braised Bambi.
With a puree of green mango.
And buttered toast.
Yum.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, January 07, 2015
RIDICULOUS EXPECTATIONS
Now that the holiday season is over, and life finally returns from the hurly burley to the festeringly placid and normal, it is time for us to concentrate on what really matters. No more frantic shopping, saving huge amounts of money by finding incredible retail bargains.....
Success is assured, if we put our noses to the wheel and concentrate.
In my case, that means finding someone with whom to snuggle.
Someone shorter than five foot eight and a half inches.
Who is also significantly younger than me.
And cute as the dickens.
Plus brilliant.
BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHHAHAA!!!
Yes, that is a very realistic idea. I am sure that wonderful women of precisely that description are lining up somewhere just hoping to meet a stubborn middle-aged Dutchman, who smells distressingly of old-fashioned pipe-tobacco, and has too much vocabulary.
I'm probably better off finding some more books to read, and also discovering more places that serve Hong Kong style milk-tea.
Plus a selection of scrumptious baked snackipoos.
Nobody likes smokers anymore, and most unattached young ladies will, instinctively, pinch their noses while passing, en route to fabulous shopping somewhere that I don't go.
Once you hit the tweedy years, life is all about hot beverages, tobacco, and a good book. Several good books. A veritable pile of them.
If you find someone who likes that too, fine and good.
But it isn't very likely.
Miss, would you like to come home with me and view a humongous stockpile of pipe tobacco? There's enough for both of us.
In case society collapses.
Heh.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Success is assured, if we put our noses to the wheel and concentrate.
In my case, that means finding someone with whom to snuggle.
Someone shorter than five foot eight and a half inches.
Who is also significantly younger than me.
And cute as the dickens.
Plus brilliant.
BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHHAHAA!!!
Yes, that is a very realistic idea. I am sure that wonderful women of precisely that description are lining up somewhere just hoping to meet a stubborn middle-aged Dutchman, who smells distressingly of old-fashioned pipe-tobacco, and has too much vocabulary.
I'm probably better off finding some more books to read, and also discovering more places that serve Hong Kong style milk-tea.
Plus a selection of scrumptious baked snackipoos.
Nobody likes smokers anymore, and most unattached young ladies will, instinctively, pinch their noses while passing, en route to fabulous shopping somewhere that I don't go.
Once you hit the tweedy years, life is all about hot beverages, tobacco, and a good book. Several good books. A veritable pile of them.
If you find someone who likes that too, fine and good.
But it isn't very likely.
Miss, would you like to come home with me and view a humongous stockpile of pipe tobacco? There's enough for both of us.
In case society collapses.
Heh.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, January 06, 2015
TOMORROW WE COME BACK AND WE CUT OFF YOUR JOHNSON!
Some things just don't stand up well to translation. Anyone who has read the Bible in Dutch may realize this. There are, never-the-less, a large number of key phrases which by all means must be traduced into other languages.
This way to the egress.
Keep away from children.
Don't eat this.
My hovercraft is full of eels.
That last one, in the original scriptural Greek, was "min luftkussenfartzug es fold med ale". It's the last thing that king Rehoboam of Judah said before syphilitic squamosis ripped him from the living.
Sometimes scripture drops a bomb.
I was reminded of this little fact when a customer of a coffee shop at which I enjoyed a delicious repast urgently wished to use the bathroom. Earlier I had seen an aged gentleman go in, but I had not yet seen him come out. The customer was baffled at the door not co-operating with his frantic yanking.
What I wished to say was "there's an old fossil in there, has been for at least ten minutes, no I don't know why, the best possible scenario is that he's fallen asleep, let us NOT discuss the worst possible scenarios, of which there are two, both equally bad. Are you sure you need to go?"
Unfortunately, my Cantonese is not fluent. I know, I really should do the research and construe the phrasing so that the very next time someone occupies the crapper overlong in another language I am not left hanging. For the benefit of my fellow man, as it were. One should always be helpful, and increase good in the world.
"That old wreck has been in there for twenty minutes at least! For the love of Christ, let's pray he hasn't had an episode! Or that we're long gone before emergency services opens that door!"
Or that he's crawled out of the window, because he wanted to take a shortcut, or he saw his ex-wife just enter this coffeeshop.
Look on the bright side!
Much of the classic movie 'The Big Lebowski' is like that.
The inherent welt-anschauung does not translate.
It elucidates primarily to Americans.
Everyone else is baffled.
Somewhat.
我哋聽日返嚟，切斷你嘅.....
[國：我們明天回來，切斷你的.....]
You know, for the life of me I have no idea how to suitably translate the term 'Johnson' as it is used in that scene with the marmot. The sound, connotations, context, hue, and mood of that word at that time shout volumes to native speakers of our language, along with the since then internalized phrase "no, Donny, these men are nihilists; there's nothing to be afraid of."
It's a locutionary Grand Canyon.
'Ngo-tei teng-yat faan-lei, chit-duen neige.....'
[Mandarin: Wǒmen míngtiān huílái, qiē-duàn nǐ de..... ]
"We tomorrow return-come, chop-separate your...."
Johnson?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Keep away from children.
Don't eat this.
My hovercraft is full of eels.
That last one, in the original scriptural Greek, was "min luftkussenfartzug es fold med ale". It's the last thing that king Rehoboam of Judah said before syphilitic squamosis ripped him from the living.
Sometimes scripture drops a bomb.
I was reminded of this little fact when a customer of a coffee shop at which I enjoyed a delicious repast urgently wished to use the bathroom. Earlier I had seen an aged gentleman go in, but I had not yet seen him come out. The customer was baffled at the door not co-operating with his frantic yanking.
What I wished to say was "there's an old fossil in there, has been for at least ten minutes, no I don't know why, the best possible scenario is that he's fallen asleep, let us NOT discuss the worst possible scenarios, of which there are two, both equally bad. Are you sure you need to go?"
Unfortunately, my Cantonese is not fluent. I know, I really should do the research and construe the phrasing so that the very next time someone occupies the crapper overlong in another language I am not left hanging. For the benefit of my fellow man, as it were. One should always be helpful, and increase good in the world.
"That old wreck has been in there for twenty minutes at least! For the love of Christ, let's pray he hasn't had an episode! Or that we're long gone before emergency services opens that door!"
Or that he's crawled out of the window, because he wanted to take a shortcut, or he saw his ex-wife just enter this coffeeshop.
Look on the bright side!
Much of the classic movie 'The Big Lebowski' is like that.
The inherent welt-anschauung does not translate.
It elucidates primarily to Americans.
Everyone else is baffled.
Somewhat.
我哋聽日返嚟，切斷你嘅.....
[國：我們明天回來，切斷你的.....]
You know, for the life of me I have no idea how to suitably translate the term 'Johnson' as it is used in that scene with the marmot. The sound, connotations, context, hue, and mood of that word at that time shout volumes to native speakers of our language, along with the since then internalized phrase "no, Donny, these men are nihilists; there's nothing to be afraid of."
It's a locutionary Grand Canyon.
'Ngo-tei teng-yat faan-lei, chit-duen neige.....'
[Mandarin: Wǒmen míngtiān huílái, qiē-duàn nǐ de..... ]
"We tomorrow return-come, chop-separate your...."
Johnson?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, January 05, 2015
MOO!
The old gentleman bought three egg-tarts for his grand kid. For himself, a small fried bing. As she ate, it soon became apparent that she did not like the crust, but simply went for the custard. Carefully and luxuriously the little thing scooped out and savoured the sweet eggy filling. At last there were three perfectly cleaned out shells in front of her, and she smiled happily.
Her granddad is a very indulgent man.
I had gone there after attending to some business early in the morning, and was myself happily getting around some hot milk-tea and a crumbly cake. Breakfast, but later in the day than for most people. There were already tables enjoying noodle soup, and southern titty pork knuckle over rice.
Along with coffee and a scrumptious array of pastries.
Mostly elderly people; I felt quite young.
The weather has improved. It is not as cold as last week. Even a little bit of warmth brings old folks out of the woodwork. During the morning, Chinatown is their place. And other than badly dressed scruffy tourists, who audibly make stupid comments as they wander around, grey-haired people are the majority, striding purposefully (albeit at a reasonably calm and slow pace) toward coffee shops, bakeries, and Portsmouth Square.
Some of the old geezers have a spring in their step.
And a cigarette in the corner of the mouth.
Ah, it is good to be alive!
Never trust retired gentlemen, unless they have a grandkid in tow. And beware that the infant maybe a shill or accomplice. Old farts are better card sharks than you can possibly imagine. Fast hands, nimble arthritic fingers, and sparkly eyes. Even at nickle stakes, they'll clean you out.
One moment you had a couple of bucks in your pocket, and a pocket.
The next, grampa over there is buying another pack of smokes.
He's still got a twinkle in his eyes. Lunchtime is coming up, and surely there's another sucker somewhere nearby? Gonna have me some nice greasy roast duck over rice, with green green veggies!
Here chicken. Here chicken. Here chicken!
Dumb white tourists amble past, twittering cow-sounds at each other.
All they ever eat are eggrolls and pork buns.
Everything else is unknown.
And dangerous.
Moo.
APPENDIX
Egg tarts: 蛋撻 ('daan taat'), rich yolky custard in a crumbly or flaky pastry cup. Small fried bing: 煎餅. Milk tea: 奶茶 ('naai cha'); strong black tea with sweet condensed milk. So very wonderful, especially during colder weather. Crumbly cake: 荷花酥餅 ('ho faa sou bing'), a round bakery item consisting of a sweet rich doughy filling which is often similar to boterkoek, surrounded by a flaky pastry cut across petal-wise to open up like a flower. Southern titty pork knuckle: 南乳豬手 ('naam yü chyu sou'), pigs trotters flavoured with red-fermented tofu (naam yu; "southern titty"), stewed till buttery soft. Cigarette: 煙仔 ('yin-jai'); the essential adjunct to elderly rapscallions. Eggrolls: 春捲 ('chun kuen'). Pork buns: 叉燒包 ('cha siu baau'); along with eggrolls, these are very popular among suburbanites.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Her granddad is a very indulgent man.
I had gone there after attending to some business early in the morning, and was myself happily getting around some hot milk-tea and a crumbly cake. Breakfast, but later in the day than for most people. There were already tables enjoying noodle soup, and southern titty pork knuckle over rice.
Along with coffee and a scrumptious array of pastries.
Mostly elderly people; I felt quite young.
The weather has improved. It is not as cold as last week. Even a little bit of warmth brings old folks out of the woodwork. During the morning, Chinatown is their place. And other than badly dressed scruffy tourists, who audibly make stupid comments as they wander around, grey-haired people are the majority, striding purposefully (albeit at a reasonably calm and slow pace) toward coffee shops, bakeries, and Portsmouth Square.
Some of the old geezers have a spring in their step.
And a cigarette in the corner of the mouth.
Ah, it is good to be alive!
Never trust retired gentlemen, unless they have a grandkid in tow. And beware that the infant maybe a shill or accomplice. Old farts are better card sharks than you can possibly imagine. Fast hands, nimble arthritic fingers, and sparkly eyes. Even at nickle stakes, they'll clean you out.
One moment you had a couple of bucks in your pocket, and a pocket.
The next, grampa over there is buying another pack of smokes.
He's still got a twinkle in his eyes. Lunchtime is coming up, and surely there's another sucker somewhere nearby? Gonna have me some nice greasy roast duck over rice, with green green veggies!
Here chicken. Here chicken. Here chicken!
Dumb white tourists amble past, twittering cow-sounds at each other.
All they ever eat are eggrolls and pork buns.
Everything else is unknown.
And dangerous.
Moo.
APPENDIX
Egg tarts: 蛋撻 ('daan taat'), rich yolky custard in a crumbly or flaky pastry cup. Small fried bing: 煎餅. Milk tea: 奶茶 ('naai cha'); strong black tea with sweet condensed milk. So very wonderful, especially during colder weather. Crumbly cake: 荷花酥餅 ('ho faa sou bing'), a round bakery item consisting of a sweet rich doughy filling which is often similar to boterkoek, surrounded by a flaky pastry cut across petal-wise to open up like a flower. Southern titty pork knuckle: 南乳豬手 ('naam yü chyu sou'), pigs trotters flavoured with red-fermented tofu (naam yu; "southern titty"), stewed till buttery soft. Cigarette: 煙仔 ('yin-jai'); the essential adjunct to elderly rapscallions. Eggrolls: 春捲 ('chun kuen'). Pork buns: 叉燒包 ('cha siu baau'); along with eggrolls, these are very popular among suburbanites.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, January 04, 2015
IT WAS AN EPIC VICTORY!
Generally speaking, I'm whacked to the eye-brows when I return from Marin County. Due to a lot of caffeine. The day starts with two cups of reasonably strong coffee, and as soon as I've landed on the other side of the Golden Gate I make myself a cup of tea.That first one is followed by at least four more throughout the day.
Marin people are a bit dull, you see. It's that blistering self-satisfaction that suffuses their being. They know their auras are golden, and that karma must inevitably favour them.
Some of them do yoga, or exercise their flabby parts.
Please observe their saintliness.
And quite a few of them are nuts.
Peace, love, and vegetarianism.
OR, CONVERSELY, THEY WILL SIT IN FRONT OF A TELEVISION SET AND SCREAM WHILE LARGE MEN IN BODY-HUGGING PANTS WRESTLE EACH OTHER, IN THE MOST HOMO-EROTIC SPORT IMAGINABLE: FOOTBALL.
Personally, I cannot see the appeal. And I fear that makes me an outcast. But by keeping silent about my baffled loathing at the magnetism of large male bottoms in shiny breeches cavorting in pursuit of a pointy prolate spheroid made out of pigskin, I maintain peace in my vicinity.
No one has suggested that I return to my home planet.
Plus I have a clever disguise: a snazzy athletic sweatshirt, stylish black with white lettering, that references Medrash Govoha in connection with American Football. With an American Football pictured thereon, indicating that the year of importance was 2010.
Very sporty and collegiate.
And geshmak.
---dot---dot---dot---
GIVE ME A 'G'! GIVE ME AN 'O'!
VOHA! VOHA! VOHA!
From Wikipedia: "Beth Medrash Govoha is a post-graduate institution and the general age of entry for new students is about 22. A level of analytic skill and comprehension in understanding the Talmud is required to the extent that a student is be able to study a subject from the starting point all the way to the most complex areas of that subject on his own. The yeshiva does not have a remedial program for weak or unprepared students, and reaching the level required to be a successful student at the yeshiva takes several years of intense, full-time study."
And: "The daily schedule consists of three sedarim (study sessions) – a morning session, 9:30am–1:45pm, an afternoon session, 3:30pm–7:15pm, and an evening session, 9pm-11pm, in which a total of 10 hours of each day is spent studying. For each session there is a limud (subject) which is a chapter of the mesechta that that group is learning."
So okay then. Please feel free to believe that we Talmud scholars make time in our busy lives for an invigorating game. Physical culture is part of a well-rounded education, and it takes a healthy body to make a healthy mind, and all that inspiring hooh-hah. There's vim, and also vigour!
We are proud of our jocks; their glory reflects on all of us.
Go team. Medrash Govoha. Yay.
American Football.
It's serious sh*t.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Marin people are a bit dull, you see. It's that blistering self-satisfaction that suffuses their being. They know their auras are golden, and that karma must inevitably favour them.
Some of them do yoga, or exercise their flabby parts.
Please observe their saintliness.
And quite a few of them are nuts.
Peace, love, and vegetarianism.
OR, CONVERSELY, THEY WILL SIT IN FRONT OF A TELEVISION SET AND SCREAM WHILE LARGE MEN IN BODY-HUGGING PANTS WRESTLE EACH OTHER, IN THE MOST HOMO-EROTIC SPORT IMAGINABLE: FOOTBALL.
Personally, I cannot see the appeal. And I fear that makes me an outcast. But by keeping silent about my baffled loathing at the magnetism of large male bottoms in shiny breeches cavorting in pursuit of a pointy prolate spheroid made out of pigskin, I maintain peace in my vicinity.
No one has suggested that I return to my home planet.
Plus I have a clever disguise: a snazzy athletic sweatshirt, stylish black with white lettering, that references Medrash Govoha in connection with American Football. With an American Football pictured thereon, indicating that the year of importance was 2010.
Very sporty and collegiate.
And geshmak.
---dot---dot---dot---
GIVE ME A 'G'! GIVE ME AN 'O'!
VOHA! VOHA! VOHA!
From Wikipedia: "Beth Medrash Govoha is a post-graduate institution and the general age of entry for new students is about 22. A level of analytic skill and comprehension in understanding the Talmud is required to the extent that a student is be able to study a subject from the starting point all the way to the most complex areas of that subject on his own. The yeshiva does not have a remedial program for weak or unprepared students, and reaching the level required to be a successful student at the yeshiva takes several years of intense, full-time study."
And: "The daily schedule consists of three sedarim (study sessions) – a morning session, 9:30am–1:45pm, an afternoon session, 3:30pm–7:15pm, and an evening session, 9pm-11pm, in which a total of 10 hours of each day is spent studying. For each session there is a limud (subject) which is a chapter of the mesechta that that group is learning."
So okay then. Please feel free to believe that we Talmud scholars make time in our busy lives for an invigorating game. Physical culture is part of a well-rounded education, and it takes a healthy body to make a healthy mind, and all that inspiring hooh-hah. There's vim, and also vigour!
We are proud of our jocks; their glory reflects on all of us.
Go team. Medrash Govoha. Yay.
American Football.
It's serious sh*t.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
LETS TALK ABOUT YOUR TEDDY BEAR...
The other day my apartment mate confessed that she had done something quite self-indulgent; she had purchased a three-pack of luxurious socks from the internet. Whereupon I mentioned that I likewise had acquired new socks, those being a four-pack of cheapazoid black cotten and polyester items from Chinatown.
Almost as soon as I had said that, I realized my mistake.
No man should ever discuss socks with a woman.
They're irrational on that score.
Men and their socks.
"IF YOU WASHED AND ROTATED YOUR SOCKS, INSTEAD OF WEARING THEM THE HELL OUT, YOU WOULDN'T NEED TO BUY NEW ONES!"
Well, actually I do wash them, but once there's a hole, there's very little you can do, especially if they're all different.
"HAH, YOU WASHING SOCKS, A LIKELY STORY!"
About the only thing you can do with mis-matched socks is make little stuffed sock-daemons out of them, and play-act Shakespeare plays or Tennessee Williams. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, for instance, is highly suited to interpretation with sock-puppets. And the three no-neck monsters are perfect that way.
"BULL-PUCKEY! ABOUT THE ONLY THING YOUR SOCKS ARE GOOD FOR IS PUTTING A LINE OF THEM GUARDING THE FRONT DOOR TO CHASE AWAY BURGLARS, WHO WOULD THEN CALL THE POLICE TO REPORT UNSPEAKABLE CRUELTY TO FOOTWEAR!"
At this point, all my protests prompted even wilder operatic assertions about sock-abuse, possessed scraps of cotton lurking in dark corners, sad little rags drowning their stinky despair in drink, people running away screaming at the very sight of them, cruelty and beastliness on my part, oh woe, and how I am a very bad man indeed.
"STOP TERRIFYING STRANGERS!"
Finally, I tried to distract her by mentioning that her beloved teddy bear (ms. Bruin) seems to enjoy playing canasta. For penny stakes.
Never call a girl's favourite person a card shark.
Bad things happen if you do.
But fortunately her Teddy Bear doesn't hate me.
She despises a few other people, however.
Including the once-again ex boyfriend.
Who had better watch it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Almost as soon as I had said that, I realized my mistake.
No man should ever discuss socks with a woman.
They're irrational on that score.
Men and their socks.
"IF YOU WASHED AND ROTATED YOUR SOCKS, INSTEAD OF WEARING THEM THE HELL OUT, YOU WOULDN'T NEED TO BUY NEW ONES!"
Well, actually I do wash them, but once there's a hole, there's very little you can do, especially if they're all different.
"HAH, YOU WASHING SOCKS, A LIKELY STORY!"
About the only thing you can do with mis-matched socks is make little stuffed sock-daemons out of them, and play-act Shakespeare plays or Tennessee Williams. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, for instance, is highly suited to interpretation with sock-puppets. And the three no-neck monsters are perfect that way.
"BULL-PUCKEY! ABOUT THE ONLY THING YOUR SOCKS ARE GOOD FOR IS PUTTING A LINE OF THEM GUARDING THE FRONT DOOR TO CHASE AWAY BURGLARS, WHO WOULD THEN CALL THE POLICE TO REPORT UNSPEAKABLE CRUELTY TO FOOTWEAR!"
At this point, all my protests prompted even wilder operatic assertions about sock-abuse, possessed scraps of cotton lurking in dark corners, sad little rags drowning their stinky despair in drink, people running away screaming at the very sight of them, cruelty and beastliness on my part, oh woe, and how I am a very bad man indeed.
"STOP TERRIFYING STRANGERS!"
Finally, I tried to distract her by mentioning that her beloved teddy bear (ms. Bruin) seems to enjoy playing canasta. For penny stakes.
Never call a girl's favourite person a card shark.
Bad things happen if you do.
But fortunately her Teddy Bear doesn't hate me.
She despises a few other people, however.
Including the once-again ex boyfriend.
Who had better watch it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, January 03, 2015
THE VERY IMAGE OF GRAVITAS
One of the most common reactions that pipe smokers get, other than having some screaming Berkeley tofu-head virago demonstrate entirely new uses for the F word starting one block away and getting louder and more insane as she determinedly comes closer, is the remark: "that reminds me of my father".
Usually it's a woman who makes that comment.
Proving that not all females hate smokers, or are insane. There actually are a substantial number who do not resemble batshit broads from Berkeley at all, and do not have meltdowns at the concept of someone enjoying America's oldest cash crop in a civilized manner.
It's remarkable.
IT REMINDS ME OF MY FATHER
Sometimes people say that a pipe adds an air of authority, an image of wisdom and knowledge, and the appearance of gravitas.
Again, that's usually women too.
Men don't say much. Other than to remark that they tried it, failed, and now feel hopelessly inadequate. Which is accurate; if they afterwards they took up cigars instead, they ARE inadequate.
They have a lot to make up for.
Nebech.
Unfortunately, most cigar smokers have opinions which are, in the main, absurdly unrealistic and almost impossibly out of whack with any rational thought processes. That giant turd-sceptre in their mouth short-circuits the synapses, and scrambles brain waves.
Plus they go cross-eyed tracking the insect they thought they saw crawl out of the cigar before the burning cone reached its nest.
Cheroots = bugs, brainfarts, and crazy ideas.
I stole the picture above from the internet.
It's Betrand Russell, in case you were wondering. It's axiomatic that he would be persona non-grata in Berkeley. He represents the intellectual dictatorship of well-educated old white males.
That's considered déclassée.
And threatening.
On the other hand, most people in Berkeley have never even heard of him, would not understand his writings, and could not spell his name anyway. But they know how to spell 'vegan', 'sainthood', 'green', 'imperialism', 'revolution', and other essential words......
There used to be tobacco in Berkeley.
Plus brains, and normal women.
Now there is tofu.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Usually it's a woman who makes that comment.
Proving that not all females hate smokers, or are insane. There actually are a substantial number who do not resemble batshit broads from Berkeley at all, and do not have meltdowns at the concept of someone enjoying America's oldest cash crop in a civilized manner.
It's remarkable.
IT REMINDS ME OF MY FATHER
Sometimes people say that a pipe adds an air of authority, an image of wisdom and knowledge, and the appearance of gravitas.
Again, that's usually women too.
Men don't say much. Other than to remark that they tried it, failed, and now feel hopelessly inadequate. Which is accurate; if they afterwards they took up cigars instead, they ARE inadequate.
They have a lot to make up for.
Nebech.
Unfortunately, most cigar smokers have opinions which are, in the main, absurdly unrealistic and almost impossibly out of whack with any rational thought processes. That giant turd-sceptre in their mouth short-circuits the synapses, and scrambles brain waves.
Plus they go cross-eyed tracking the insect they thought they saw crawl out of the cigar before the burning cone reached its nest.
Cheroots = bugs, brainfarts, and crazy ideas.
I stole the picture above from the internet.
It's Betrand Russell, in case you were wondering. It's axiomatic that he would be persona non-grata in Berkeley. He represents the intellectual dictatorship of well-educated old white males.
That's considered déclassée.
And threatening.
On the other hand, most people in Berkeley have never even heard of him, would not understand his writings, and could not spell his name anyway. But they know how to spell 'vegan', 'sainthood', 'green', 'imperialism', 'revolution', and other essential words......
There used to be tobacco in Berkeley.
Plus brains, and normal women.
Now there is tofu.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, January 02, 2015
THIS IS HOW SCHISMS GET STARTED
One can imagine bloody wars being fought as a result. Two versions of the same scripture inevitably cause problems. Before you know it, rival factions wearing red and green go at it. Hammer, tongs.
There's certainly enough ammo.
Tomatoes, eggs, cabbages.
Over-ripe plantains.
THE ORTHODOX VERSION
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aiVOG199X2c.]
This is the only correct version, the minhag which you grew up with and love. It features in your dreams, and unconsciously you make numerous references to its wichtige un riezige tenets during the day.
Especially at times of work-related stress.
It is the ideal which keeps you sane.
THE DISGUSTING HERESY
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A42Ba8naV_o.]
Repulsive! Anathema! We must fight this tooth and nail. There can be only ONE version that shall continue to exist. Variant readings destroy tradition, and eventually people will go off the derech.
Our continued existence is at stake.
And our fur hats.
Before you know it, people will be congressing with animals and political candidates. This must be stopped!
In these perilous times, we must check whether doubtful individuals weigh the same as a duck (using the scientific methods of Chazal).
And if they do, our instructions are completely clear.
You know (veistu) what has to be done.
Ein ye'ush ba olam klal.
Do it.
Why are people looking at me funny?
This aggression won't stand.
Nice marmot.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
There's certainly enough ammo.
Tomatoes, eggs, cabbages.
Over-ripe plantains.
THE ORTHODOX VERSION
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aiVOG199X2c.]
This is the only correct version, the minhag which you grew up with and love. It features in your dreams, and unconsciously you make numerous references to its wichtige un riezige tenets during the day.
Especially at times of work-related stress.
It is the ideal which keeps you sane.
THE DISGUSTING HERESY
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A42Ba8naV_o.]
Repulsive! Anathema! We must fight this tooth and nail. There can be only ONE version that shall continue to exist. Variant readings destroy tradition, and eventually people will go off the derech.
Our continued existence is at stake.
And our fur hats.
Before you know it, people will be congressing with animals and political candidates. This must be stopped!
In these perilous times, we must check whether doubtful individuals weigh the same as a duck (using the scientific methods of Chazal).
And if they do, our instructions are completely clear.
You know (veistu) what has to be done.
Ein ye'ush ba olam klal.
Do it.
Why are people looking at me funny?
This aggression won't stand.
Nice marmot.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, January 01, 2015
IT'S TIME FOR TEA!
Having partaken of the new-year's jook -- a tradition started by Nick of Chubby Noodle -- this blogger is heading off to Chinatown for a hot cup of milk-tea and a pastry. After which I shall head over to the Occidental for some very minor jubilation. Though I am armed with three briars and a plentifull quantity of aged Virginia tobacco, it will be a short jaunt. There is work to be done tomorrow, and I need to get up relatively early.
EXPLICATA
New Years Jook: rice porridge garnished with smoked bacon, a runny fried egg, and chopped green onion. Nick intends this to be an annual thing, and in the opinion of this blogger, that is a mighty fine idea. Everyone should start the year afresh, with rice porridge and a bit of high cholesterol.
Chubby Noodle: a restaurant in the Marina which opened a few months ago. Asian fusion, really tasty nibbles, sake, and fun wine. The food is really good. Extremely tasty. Highly recommended.
Milk-tea, pastry: sanctified indulgences.
Occidental: a smoker's sanctuary in the financial district. Last of it's kind.
Briars: wooden smoking implements. Erica Arborea.
Aged Virginia: what happens to little girls when they stop believing in Santa Claus.
Work, Early: four letter words.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
EXPLICATA
New Years Jook: rice porridge garnished with smoked bacon, a runny fried egg, and chopped green onion. Nick intends this to be an annual thing, and in the opinion of this blogger, that is a mighty fine idea. Everyone should start the year afresh, with rice porridge and a bit of high cholesterol.
Chubby Noodle: a restaurant in the Marina which opened a few months ago. Asian fusion, really tasty nibbles, sake, and fun wine. The food is really good. Extremely tasty. Highly recommended.
Milk-tea, pastry: sanctified indulgences.
Occidental: a smoker's sanctuary in the financial district. Last of it's kind.
Briars: wooden smoking implements. Erica Arborea.
Aged Virginia: what happens to little girls when they stop believing in Santa Claus.
Work, Early: four letter words.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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