RIGHTWING WEASEL ORGY

The boys in the backroom first spent an hour chivying the lone liberal, then happily howled and cheered while watching the local team do something utterly stupendous. It was very noisy. The retired member of the judicial branch must have wet his lucky boxers which he hsn't washed in ten years repeatedly. His wife had let him out, and he was determined to enjoy his freedom.

I have no skin in the game, am repulsed by their company, and never use those chairs anyhow, so they can stain them all they want.

Instead, I quietly puttered around elsewhere, and got a lot done.

I'm good at ignoring savages.


Quite frankly, the obscene fascination that many cigar smokers have for "the game" is quite as baffling as the obsession with Lord Of The Rings trivia and story that a number of pipesmokers have. There's probably an overlap somewhere, but as a very occasional cigar smoker and fairly regular pipesmoker, I very much wish that fetishists on either side would kindly stuff a sock in it. Hurling pigskins is twaddle. Casting rings into fiery pits is twaddle. Men wearing helmets are not worth losing control of your precious bowels over.


On the other hand, the Saturday zombie who is addicted to watching women playing tennis (while huffing a cheap cheroot) is also out of his mind.

I am a co-enabler. I make it easier for boring old buggers to be unbearable.
As well as poison themselves.

You will be glad to know that no beer was consumed, nor mystery meat chili made in an electric crockpot shaped like a football. They're not dying of acid reflux on my watch.
I wouldn't want to clean that mess up if they did.

Fat-head-shame the lot of them.
Bloated twats.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================