SOUNDS LIKE CRICKETS

According to Marjorie Taylor Greene, we liberals control the weather. If that is so, we're doing a bang up job, because it was lovely today. While smoking after lunch and before doing my shopping I wandered around avoiding tourists and little old ladies, heading into an alleyway past the hospital.

You know, I've never understood why some women dress like slags in good weather.
Don't they need pockets? Where are they stowing their smokeables?
To say nothing of pipe cleaners, a tamper, and matches.

No, don't try putting them in your bra.
Sharp corners.


We men, of course, don't have that problem. We have pockets.
And very few of us wear brassieres.


Come to think of it, many young ladies don't smoke pipes. Seeing as the chemistry of taste, and the psychology behind textural fondnesses and favourite shapes, is largely the same, the only possible explanation is that women as a rule lack a sufficiency of pockets.

Well, most women are not adequatly garbed for eventualities. Clothing ideally should have many capacious pockets for stowing things when the weather turns nasty. As it does in parts of the country targeted by liberal weather engineers. Just shove aside the lipstick, chapstick, and sunscreen, ladies. Make room for a small leather pouch of Churchman Flake and a good solid Charatan Dublin. Plus cleaners, tamper, and matches. Leave the bra for other things.


The post tea-time smoke was a Virginia blend in a Dunhill shellbriar bent bulldog I recently acquired to mark a significant date. There are benches down a nearby alleyway, the afternoon sun slants softly through the branches, the world is far away.
I've rarely had such a marvelous time.

Must be the weather.



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