VICTORY OF THE REPTILES

In an editor's column from two ago, the editor of the magazine writes about the local possums threatening his father. Which is almost believable, until you realize that they were armed and writing hate mail.
Erudite flea-infested hate mail.
Okay, that puts them so far ahead of the usual redneck as to be from another planet. Space possums taking over the backwoods of America.

And very possibly horning in on the methamphetamine trade.
An all-American industry if ever there was one.


See, that's why we need to solve the opioid crisis. Because otherwise them smarty pants outsiders will control our addictions, just like they do with coffee.

Starbucks: filled with Europeans, Colombians, and rabid furry vermin.

Your coworkers are already in thrall, enslaved.

They'll pay any price.



This blogger, in keeping with his hatred of addictions, like bad beer, junkfood, and enterprises from Seattle, has not set foot in Starbucks in years.

Instead, I will at times smoke a bowlful of tobacco after a nice cup of tea, while peacefully enjoying the absence of people on cell phones.

I am addicted to absolutely nothing at all; I lead an almost monastic existence.
Purity and light. And guacamole.



Yeah well I am enjoying a mug of strong hot Celebes right now as part of waking up, and will step onto the sidewalk shortly for a small cigarillo, also necessary, but I am not in thrall to bupkes. This is normal behaviour, rest assured, and normal folks all over the city are doing the same.

There are baristas abusing patrons withing three blocks in nearly every direction.
Unwashed and weeping junkies. Barely alert. Desperate.
Poor, poor fools.





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