THE OLD BOYS

Sometimes the coarse-mouthed old farts I babysit are a trial. After the past few days I am glad that I don't have to see them or hear their foul vulgarities and vicious tongues for a while. These are not sane men. They seriously need counseling. More importantly, they need straightjackets and ball gags. I would also suggest applying a cattle prod, but eventually their incontinence diapers -- many local Tumpites probably wear those -- would give them horribly pooh cankers if not changed, and their wives would not allow them into the house unless they were thoroughly hosed down.
An electric shock would make them loose control.
Sooner than necessary.

But please imagine a normally priggish and immensely self-satisfied pudgy Marinite male wearing a straightjacket and stained trousers jumping up and down and screaming hysterically through his ball gag while being sprayed with the garden hose.
Cold water, clammy skin, discoloured clothing.

There was an entire flock of wild turky vultures wheeling above the tidal marshes north of Sausalito the other day. Possibly some Marin Republican got chased into the swamp by his nearest and dearest, because even with the straightjacket and ball gag he was unbearable. There was just no living with him. His teenage heir chased drove him out, beating him savagely with a length of rubber hose.
While he breathed his last, weeping because Trump won and the democrats stole the election, sunny boy was raiding his filing cabinets and snorted all his cocaine.
He knows now he should've drowned the brat at birth.
The bad seed is strong in this one.


In the case of the vile old boys in the backroom, I suspect that their wives are often drunk by noon. Except for the Dublin dingo, who is divorced.

The hot tubs are all drained and boarded over, because drunken suburbanite house fraus might otherwise accidentally drown, sinking insensate beneath the water's surface.



You know, there are times when I'm glad that I don't live in Marin. Hard to imagine, huh?



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