CIGAR-SMOKING DINGBATS SPUTTERING CRAZILY

Today was quite extraordinary. Both Mad Art and the Hibernian buffoon were staggeringly ill-composed in the backroom, hissing furiously in defense of Trump, whose nuclear temper tantrum yesterday released a plume of radioactive vapours over Washington. If nothing else, it showed that the orange dingo is both completely unhinged and constipated -- too many baco cheese burgers and Trump Tower Taco Bowls, probably -- and the poor bastard may have actually lost it.

I wonder who gets to change the soiled diapers?

The two gentlemen mentioned might have apoplexy soon.
Because they feel that life is so unfair.
Positively Obama-esque.
Liberal!


I applaud their displeasure with reality, and hope that the medical profession will step in and provide them with suitable straight garments, very stylish.

TOWERING TACO BOWL [COMPLETELY INEDIBLE]

Obviously their bowels hurt. White folks diet.
They need prunes!


Other cigar smokers back there are saner, if only barely. One of the bald ghouls eats enough chilies that there is no fear of gut blockage putting much pressure on his brain, and the other knows his hounds will rip him to bloody shreds if he smells daemonic, so other than hoping that the poor and elderly just die, rather than using Obama care and food stamps, he tries to keep his blood pressure and body chemistry from going out of whack.


I, of course, like the true Christian that I am, heartily wished them all bad dreams, dyspepsia, and erectile problems.


The tin of Greg Pease's stellar flake I opened on my birthday is nearly gone, a splendid tobacco. Despite a slight sadness over the end of it, I thoroughly enjoyed the two bowls I smoked during the afternoon.

Maybe I'll open some Regents Flake next.

Good times.




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