NO VODKA, NO INTERNET BANKING DATA

This is something that makes me wonder what's going on: several of my "lamenting about a lost love life" posts from a few months after my break-up with my long-time companion over a decade ago are being avidly read, per my blog stats, and given that there has been a marked increase in readership (many more visitors to my blogsite than normal), all I can assume is that the Russians wish to exploit my weaknesses by hooking me up with a FSB operative probably named Olga. Except they can't find the chink in the armour to get in.

Olga.

Hi Olga.

You must be really desperate, Olga. A pipesmoking Dutch American on high bloodpressure meds with a chronically sore leg (right side) is no prize catch. Despite a tendency to open doors for women and regularly shower. Besides, I am not likely to have exploitable info or data, given that I bank strictly in person never on line, do not transact business of any type on my computer, and do not have a credit card number stored on my hard drive.
And I have never shopped for Uggs or Manolo Blahniks.

Uggs and fancy dress pumps were frequent spam in the comments years ago, that's why they are mentioned now. So a naughty picture of a naked Slavic woman modelling very ugly oversized Australian sheep-herder stinky footwear is not likely to wear down my defenses.
It might amuse me, and you could expect several sneering comments.
Why is she wearing smelly fur boots and nothing else?
Those things make her feet look big.
She needs vodka.

Do you have a monkey? As you can see from the picture above, I do. Is your monkey lonesome? So far, Arabello Oyster (the monkey; Sydney Fylbert is the turkey vulture seated to his right) does not have a girlfriend. Perhaps he doesn't need one, or isn't looking for a romantic partner. Several of the other furry creatures are in relationships, and a few of them have indicated that they have "interests", but have not actually dated anybody.

How are you with animals? There are over forty of them here, and they can be quite a handful. They have distinct personalities. One of them, a two and a half inch tall purple finger dinosaur, believes that all women wish for a flame thrower party, and is inordinately fond of eggs. His kind may be extinct, even though they survived the comet. The females in this apartment generally object when he starts happily singing "flame thrower party tonight, flame thrower party tonight".

The head roomie (Ms. Bruin) and the assistant head roomie (a she-sheep) keep them all in line, most of the time, leaving me to wander around the Chinatown Nob Hill area with my pipe daydreaming and swearing at my right leg when I feel the urge.
Much of the time I daydream about food.
I plan an early lunch today.
Then milk tea.

Sydney Fylbert has insisted that I have some of the raspberry strudel which my apartment mate brought home; he claims I don't feed him enough (pudgy liar), and don't seem to understand that he really likes to eat! What on earth is wrong with me?
I think it's purely a mental thing. Maybe instinct.
He seems reasonably plump.
Belches a lot.


Anyway, dearest Olga, you would have your work cut out for you if you tried to rope me in and sabotage whatever it is that you think I do. The rambunctious fuzzbutts would be all over you, and some of them would probably steal your wallet. They'd insist on snackies. Blinis!
Do you make blinis? They've heard about those things!
And please stop swilling vodka!
It's unseemly!

Got any cigarettes? Belomorkanal?


Sorry, there is NO vodka here.
Talk to the she-sheep.
Or Ms. Bruin.




Post scriptum: Other fancy footwear that doesn't interest me for which there were very many linkspamcomments: Pikolino, Franco Sarto, Isabel Marant, Pantofola D'Oro, Liz Claiborne, Caparros, Michael Kors, Christian Louboutin, Jimmy Choo, Ferragamo, Prada, Dolce & Gabbana, Gianmarco Lorenzi. I learned a lot about feet that year.




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