THE ALL-AMERICAN PAST TIME

While I was at work, enduring men in shiny pants doing things on teevee (a ball game, in which the ball wasn't really a 'ball'), because the cigar-chomping yobbos in the backroom (including the foul-mouthed recently retired member of the judicial branch) had it on, someone casually asked if I was a communist. In a comment underneath this morning's post. Where I indicated that ballgames beloved all across this great country are more or less a giant pile of shite, although I didn't phrase it quite like that.


"This is a profoundly unAmerican post. Are you a Communist, sir?"
------a beer-swilling nachos snarfing anonymous person


We had lovely weather today. Instead you were inside with your cheesy nachos and bean dip, wetting your tidy-whities over what a bunch of of men in shiny pants were doing. The sweat was pouring off your unclean brow with the thrill of it all when you read one of my recent essays on your cellphone and got your knickers in a twist. Good job, Gomer.


Am I a communist? What the heck kind of question is that?


Especially from someone who avidly stares at posteriors in shiny fabrics for three solid hours, undoubtely swearing much like the foul-mouthed member of the jucicial branch (who is recently retired) chomping on his illegal Havana cigar, possibly even slobbering, and quite likely totally forgetting about his darling wife who has no recourse but to max out his cards because she's bored, so damned bored, there's nothing on the teevee except spandex rumps and balls, and her hubby is off with the lads acting loudly stupid entirely without her though she's glad she doesn't have to witness him and his yobbo friends screeching and yowling everytime someone does something with a ball that is NOT an actual ball while the television audience loses their shiznit and someone in a loud check suit then pontifically opines something incomprehensible.


Enjoy your nachos.

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