JUST ONE OF THE FUZZY ECCENTRICS, HONEST!

Last night I napped from eleven till one clock before going out for a nightcap and a final smoke of the day at the karaoke joint. I dislike karaoke intensely, but it's perfect for getting Christmas music out of the head. We're only a year away from an all chipmunk Christmas channel on satellite radio. Shrill crap was on the sound system at work.

At least nine different songs have been rodentified.

You know, you Americans are horrid.
Singing squeaky furballs.
Good lord.


After my drink I was outside with a pipe.

A crowd of young office party happy folks surrounded me.


CONVERSATION WITH AN INTROVERT

"Cool pipe!"
[Hey!]

"Thanks!"
[Uh.]

"Whatcha smoking?"
[Expressions of drunken lust.]

"Samuel Gawith's St. James Flake."
[Samuel Gawith's St. James Flake.]

"What?"
[Whuh?]

"St. James Flake; it has probably seven percent Perique would be my guess."
[So.]

"I don't know what that is."
[That sounds utterly baffling.]

"It's an anaerobically fermented tobacco from Saint James Parish in Louisiana. Seven percent is, normally, a bit much. But this has been steam-pressed, which mellows it out considerably."
[I give neurotically precise answers for want of any conversational skill, and I am hesitant about the direction this conversation might go.]

"You seem like a very interesting person!"
[I wanna bang you.]

"I'm not, I am the club bore."
[Ain't gonna happen.]

"You are not a bore."
[You are hot.]

"Thank you."
[No. Just no.]


Yes, I haven't had any in a long time, but no, I am not into random late night drunken nookie. Even if it is sincere. Serious sober middle of the afternoon passionate and inspired nookie is an entirely different matter. Which sounds lovely, but it hasn't happened yet, ever, and the fifteenth of December is my apartment mate's birthday, I have to pick up a cake and buy a live lobster, so nothing, absolutely nothing at all, is going to interfere with my schedule tomorrow, and I can not think of a worse birthday present for her than finding out that the middle-aged git who lives in the messy room has made a bad decision and there's a hungover office worker on the premises.
That would be uncomfortable.

See, that's why it would have to be sober nookie in the middle of the afternoon. If, perchance, someone would take a long nap afterword, that person could wake up fast enough to hide under the covers when the front door starts opening, and if discovered by the apartment mate bounding in and wondering about the lump in the bed, pretend to be a penguin or a small black cat.

One of the many stuffed animals that live here.

I have given this a lot of thought.



It is tremendously flattering that a young lady half my age wants to bang me late at night after many cocktails, but in all honesty she wasn't my type, and wouldn't have been even if she were cold sober.
I have idiotically exacting standards.


That bowl of tobacco was exceptional. Sweet and smooth all the way through, and quite the best cap to a long day.
St. James Flake.




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