THE SACRIFICE

Today we commemorate our Civil War martyrs, and simultaneously sneer at the Confederacy, who were traitors and whose fallen we kind of disrespect. And, incidentally, all on our side who perished in subsequent wars. Ideally we would also set fire to "their" flags and piss on "their" graves.
One can imagine slope brows in the slave states protesting at this assertion. They are wrong. And they drink Coors, proving their degeneracy.
Inbred baseball cap wearing syphilitic yokels.

What. Ever.


My ancestors were solidly on the right side of history.
Both sets of grandparents were in World War One.
By WW2, only three were still alive.
All of them were in uniform.
As were their children.



In my generation, none have had to serve. We are the lucky ones. For which I am grateful. I would still like the opportunity to set fire to flags, and piss on graves. But I shan't press the point. We won, you lost, apathetic neener neener neener to you damned Texans.



More to the point, today both myself and my apartment mate are enjoying a day off, and because I am the only smoker in my household, I shall be leaving early in the morning. She hates tobacco, I intend to enjoy pipes and some lovely English style flake as well as half a remaining tin of Dunhill Nightcap, and there are delightful little dumplings in Chinatown which will be delicious with some fried oil.

Haven't picked out the briars yet. I'm thinking that one of my dad's old Peterson's should be part of the programme. As well as the curved Charatan that I got from Pauline years ago. And the Dunhill I bought from Marty Pulvers, when I was broke and living in very tight quarters.

It took me nearly a decade before I ate noodles again.
That last mentioned pipe meant skinflinty eating.
Three months of high salt insta ramen.
Every single effing day.
A nightmare.

Worth it.

It has a lovely deep blast, and smokes like a dream.

Today will be very good.

Milk tea.




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