ARE WE TALKING ABOUT POTATOES?

There are times when the mature badger (or weasel) comes home to San Francisco from his job in Marin and just wants a nice soothing cup of coffee, and perhaps a foot rub. The latter might be hard to find, as I do not know any foot fetishists I would let into my apartment, but the first ought to be easy, right?
Well, coffee shops are right out; they all have wifi, and are filled with the deafening racket of people yacking on their cell-phones. My favourite hang-outs in Chinatown are closed at this hour because strangely the Cantonese don't swill coffee after dinner.

Home?

My apartment mate is Aspy, and she's got a mouth on her.

[Aspy: this means that she has Asperger Syndrome, also known as "high-functioning autism", a common affliction of geniuses and obesessed types. Basically, it means that there are flaws to her socialization. While I myself am marginally Aspy, she is a case. A dear sweet woman, brilliant and witty, but also capable of going on and on and on and on about a subject, expressing the same set of thoughts in different ways until it has been completely clarified ....... without realizing that after the third or fourth (or fifth) time it had jumped the shark, been beaten to death, had become monotonous, veered into repetition territory, started to pall, ceased to thrill, no longer engaged, acquired a matte finish, made eyes glaze over, become a ringing in the ears, started eating its own tail, paled to white noise ......']

It's that mouth.

How can two such delicious lips spew such problematic stuff?

She's currently reading a murder mystery that involves a severe woman-hating protestant preacher whose wife supports him in his in his clerical vocation. No one's snuffed it yet, but if any one gets whacked, it should be the man of god.

My apartment mate is a bit of a women's libber.

And holy Jesus does she have a mouth.

The minister is a right xxxt.

Like many such.


I used to think it was because she was Cantonese, seeing as when those people talk among themselves almost every other phrase contains a reference to 'amagehai', or a creative variant of burying someone or slaughtering their whole family, but I've since then recognized that even if she weren't Cantonese there would be still be buckets of appalling stuff coming out of her mouth.


She and I used to be a couple (that ended five years ago), and during the years that we were in that kind of relationship it sometimes bothered me that once she had gone off on a tangent it was hard to change the subject back to something more mutually appealing. Honest, sweetheart, I did not need to hear then about your crazy bitch boss and her reprehensible attitude towards whatever the heck it was for forty minutes, just like right now when I would rather not discuss the misogyny of Saint Paul and the early church fathers and how they consistently misused quotes from scripture for their own hate-filled AND nefarious purposes, thus making the Christian Creed the horrible repressive and barbaric instrument of tyranny which it still is today, in all of its multifaceted byzantine ghastliness.

None of which have any connection with body fluids, menstruation, phlegm, and the peculiar symbology of blood in Nicene ritual.

Besides which, talking shxt about Christians is MY job.

I am the guilty white liberal, remember?



Yes, I did have that soothing cup of coffee. It helped me recover from the conversations I had overheard earlier in the day while in Marin. Though I'm still baffled how the subject there changed from the babies born to illegal aliens to the best way to roast potatoes (rubbed with olive oil and rosemary, oven at four hundred degrees, and I am now certain that at least one of those gentlemen is also Aspy), and how any of that related to the size of Hillary's backside (which seems quite immaterial to either the issue with illegals OR kartoffel cuisine).

Someone also brought up problematic wiring. At which point I snapped that that was precisely what illegal aliens were good for, many of them understood electricity far better than high-school graduates OR the self-entitled dildo-heads of Marin.
But the game was on, and none of them reacted.
Someone had scored or hit a homer.
Or else it did not compute.


One of these days, as a refreshing change, I would really like to have a sprightly conversation about nipples. Not with the men in Marin, as their thoughts about that subject are probably pedestrian in the extreme, nor with my ex-girlfriend and present apartment mate, because it would be thin ice as well as hugely uncomfortable.

Nipples are a subject for a good-natured private discussion.
Not a public place, and with no prying ears about.

Nipples are a fascinating subject, I think.
Better than strong coffee after work.
A perfect subject for relaxation.
Nipples are a happy word.


Nipples, coffee, and cake: The perfect way to unwind after work.




I think I'll head out to the Oxxy tonight after all. The surreal twittering of cigar-huffing bozos seems like just the ticket. I've got the day off on Friday, so getting up at eight in the morning won't be a problem.
A bowl full of Virginia flake will do me good.
Perhaps I'll have congee around noon.
With a nice fried dough stick.
And a beverage.


But unfortunately, no nipples.
Can't have everything.

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