USE A SHOVEL

Apparently the match did not go well. The numerics (the San Francisco team, including one fellow with a noticeable paunch) lost the game. There was consequently no loud enthusiasm emanating from the backroom today. No screams issued. No inane cheering. Just sour rightwing grumbling. Which matched the general gloomy air outside. Fog. Mists.

The weather has gone Gothic on us.

On the other hand, I was insanely cheerful. I figure that having discovered the fabulous miracle of acetominophen (pronounced "acetominophen", politicians take note), which can make life so much more comfortable if used wisely, I have probably ingested enough of it over time that I have an autistic foetus. Somewhere. Don't have a womb. And I'm male. Past womenopause age. It's probably in the Little Nanook beer chest. I shall name it "Freddy" when it finally pops out. Irrespective of gender.

Because that's how we do things in San Francisco.

I am looking forward to the happy event.
Freddy the Golem. My offspring.
Heir to the estate.

Really, I'm going to have to find out more about football; I didn't know chonks could play. No wonder the lardos in the backroom are enthusiastic. It demonstrates that maybe someone will want them. Despite being undoubtedly unhappily married right wing ghouls.
With paunches, wrinkles, and troll-pattern baldness.

I am so happy for them. Because I don't want them.
Please take them off my hands.


If nothing else, harvest them for body parts.
They're Magaites. No earthly use.
Ambulatory compost.



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