SPORTS-GASM!

Judging by the screams emanating from the room where the old fossils were huffing stogies and watching the game, the Forty Niners pulled off something stupendous in their contest against the other team (Southern California? South Carolina? Idaho?) today.
Either that or Geoffrey busted a haemorrhoid. I don't know.
Didn't watch.

Oh sure, I stuck my head in there periodically to remind them that if they needed to get past their swollen prostates, now is a good time, nobody is in there, but I didn't stick around.

Later on I explained to the Murt-man that I abolutely hate Marin.
Entitle, arrogant, oh so special people.

Gatvernondedju. Om te kotsen!

The reason why earlier I had expressed concern about their ability and chance to micturate is because I am a warm caring individual full of sympathy for the old farts and their physical wellbeing. As well as sweetness and light.

For a large part of the afternoon I puttered around out front, safely distant from the ruckus, smoking my pipe and swilling tea.

So whether the repulsive old toads in the back had a good time or not with their televised sporting displays was rather immaterial. I had a good time. I ended up quite buzzing on all the caffeine. There was stimulation all round.

And remarkable good cheer when it was all over.

So it's highly likely that Geoffrey busted a haemorrhoid.


Three bowls, three different pipes. Two tobaccos: the first being a queerish aromatic which is quite pleasant when dried to right degree, the third, enjoyed while the Forty Niners assaulted Geoffrey's hinter quarter purulence was a very pleasant flake tobacco with some strength and great complexity.

There are, apparently, reasons why the football is pointed.



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