TWILIGHT OF THE BLOBS

Many of the people with whom I must associate are older men who smoke cigars in the back of the business. Which means that they are, largely, self-entitled successful conservatives displeased by everything in modern society except for the orange toupeed potato they voted for, and the fact that they can include pornographic images in their text messages. So for them there has been commendable progress in the last two decades, because computers!
When they were still lads, e-mail still had to be written out with quills by hand and faxed over. No titty pictures.

Yesterday Arthur looked despondent. There was no outrage!

No possibility of anyone getting spitting mad.
The butt of everyone's offpissing wasn't there.

No, I did not sympathize with him. But I did express my commiseration, as it is obvious that only the prospect of someone else having apoplexy or an ulcer keeps the old cock alive.

Besides politics, and vicious slander of everyone to the left of Steve Bannon, the venerable gentlemen also talk ball games, fifties movies, and popular music from the stone age. I have had to explain to them that I know absolutely nothing about those last three totally fascinating subjects.

It is by association with them and the fossil record that I feel young.


I know some of them are on Facebook. All of them have cellular devices. Imagine a herd of lonely old relics staring at their screens, occasionally giggling moronically, while ashes from their stogies fall on their stained trousers and the flickering flames from the fireplace give an antique glow to their parchment-like skins. Dull eyes, bald heads, and wobbly quivering jowls. Here a paunch, there a paunch, everywhere a paunch.
A whelter of creaky limbs and liver spots.

The most exciting thing to happen in the last week was a screaming match between an Irish racist and a tightly strung gentleman over the "N" word, during which one of them bluntly requested that the other shut the intercourse up. That happened on a day when I was away.
All of them seemed vibrantly alive again.
I am sad that I missed it.

I likewise enjoy a bit of outrage.
Angry old farts are therapeutic.


I hope your digestions are all okay?
Too many of you need a good burping.
Or a lullaby from the booby sitter.





Plans today: porkchops at the Regency, milk tea, briar pipes and aged Virginia tobacco, aimless wandering through alleyways, umbrella, smoking under the awnings of abandoned stores, people watching, rain, small snackipoos, a nap, the 'Pipe for Watching Rats in Spofford Alley', then whiskey with the bookseller at a place where many can't sing but do.
Nothing productive.

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