A STERLING GAME

It should not surprise you that this blogger has no vested interest in the victories or defeats of the local team. But the sadness in the back room today was epic. At least three of those estimable aged gentlemen had meltdowns. Tantrums. Despair. Despondency. Weeping fits. Tourettes. Great grief, hysterics, vapours, melodramatic wailing, and emotional trauma which will take years of therapy to get over.

It was very edifying.

It left me and the New Yorker as the adults in the room.

That does not often happen. Well for him it probably does, seeing as he is often snarkily rational, and can always make all the other men there seem like idiots by explaining exactly how and why they're stupid. But I tend towards brutality, and delight in telling them that they are fools and nobody loves them, without explaining that in language they can understand.
Simple terms, no more than two syllables.

I used to think that J the member of the judicial branch was sane and rational until he started being fair and balanced about Trump instead of justifiably partisan and murderous like a normal person.
He's an apologist for the regime.


Anyhow, the Niners lost today, and they all had mental breakdowns. Their Holiday Season is ruined. No more enjoyment till sometime next year, their lives have become bleak and dreary, pizza has lost its flavour, hard liquour does not deaden the pain, and their cigars taste like burning leaves.
More of their hair is failling out, even on the unseen places.
Their sweaty hands now tremble, weak and palsied.
The gumlines are fast receding.
Knees are watery.

If most of them weren't bald already, their hair would be thinning at a more rapid clip, and their discharges would be more watery.

Woe. Woe. Woe.



The Atlanta Falcons are clearly a better team, and reflect a better city, and better beer choices. I commend them on their victory.
They played a splendid game.
Kudos, boys.





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