Sometimes ones friends resemble meatballs. Little fatty meatballs covered with brown gravy. And by that standard, the gentlemen in the lounge huffing their cheroots and screaming vituperation about The Democrats do not qualify. Though I can well imagine them slathered in hot gravy, lava hot, hot enough to separate their flesh from their bones in little steaming raggedy strips.
One or two of them probably belong in jail, along with the Virginia Nazis arrested for plotting violence and breaking sundry laws.
So obviously there were no sports on the telly.
The slug-mutants were antsy.
The shifty suburban retired cop finished almost an entire bottle of bourbon while huffing his cigars, getting louder as the afternoon wore on, then went out to possibly commit vehicular manslaughter in the rain.
[There are many more of these people in other parts of the country, and though they all benefit from California's modernity and conveniences -- and marked lack of tornadoes, Texans, and dumbass rednecks -- they hate it here by golly, and really should move back to the holes they oozed from. They would be happier. And calmer.]
R the Subcontinental liberally puts up with their nonsense, and tolerates their insane ranting. Warty stirs up sh*t whenever he can -- as a retired doctor he finds the displays of psychoses scientifically interesting as well as entertaining. R the Caucasian is too old to slut around and risk STD's like he used to do, which I would guess is a cause of severe disappointment to the man; it has soured him and turned him into a Trumpite. D the Bald Pervert needs the crap slapped out of him by Colin Kaepernick and Greta Thunberg, and C.o.D has become a father recently and has no life.
As for the esteemed member of the judicial branch, someone mentioned that his wife has the balls of a snake. So he has his own problems.
Being an equitable and even-tempered pipe smoker myself, I tend to ignore whatever those boys are discussing. No matter the subject. And have no interest whatsoever in their zany antics.
Don't mind me, boys. Let me have my cup of tea and leave me alone. I'll just engage in rational conversation with whichever liberals (fellow pipe smokers, mostly) might seek refuge from the weather.
I love my fellow humans.
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PLANS. I HAVE PLANS!
It takes about five hours for the twitchy ache in my lower legs from the amlodipine besylate to diminish sufficiently that I can sleep. I ti...
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Oh, for the days when the brotherhood of smokers brought far better company! Now, I fear, we are coming to the day when we will be crowded into ever smaller and smaller spaces, or pushed out into the howling wind and rain.
I sincerely hope that before then, I will have expelled my laboured death rattle, probably from some tiresome neoplasm.
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