Research shows that Arlington (Texas), New Orleans (Louisiana), and Buffalo (New York) are among the most hateful places in America. As a whole the southern states tend to be the most toxic, with Texas, Georgia, and Louisiana, being the worst. No, shan't show you my sources; if you take issue with this assertion that's probably because you're a dickhead.
Suffice to say I shall not visit anytime soon.
Similarly, I do not expect you to visit us.
San Francisco is not a nice place. Especially if you're one of "those" people. By which is meant folks from anywhere between the ridge-line of the Oakland hills and Queens. You vote wrong, your mom dresses you funny, and you eat too much. Plus you smell bad.
Crap starts in the Central Valley and keeps on going.
More than two thousand miles of it.
All of you: go home.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, November 17, 2016
Wednesday, November 16, 2016
DUTCH AMERICAN HERITAGE
There are, broadly speaking, four types of Dutch American citizens.
GROUP I
The group which has been here the longest are descendants of the New Amsterdammers who came over in the early sixteen hundreds and settled in New York and New Jersey. Largely of solid stock, and by the turn of the nineteenth century into the twentieth fully integrated into WASP culture.
Despite a small number of them still speaking Dutch in a religious or family context they have seamlessly blended in.
[That, by the way, describes my family's Dutch heritage. The Van Xxxxxs trace their ancestry to Abraham and Isaac Van Xxxx, who arrived in 1630. The family nomenclature has since then deviated considerably, there are numerous variant spellings, misspellings, and complete changes, and intramarriage also confounds things. Good luck finding me in the phone book.]
GROUP II
Over one hundred years ago, deviant hard core countryside Calvinists from Groningen, Drenthe, Friesland, Zeeland, and Overijsel started coming over, largely settling in the Midwest. Holland (Michigan), Pella (Iowa), and a large number of stick-in-the-mud towns hither and yon that are sometimes unimaginatively named 'Nederland', such as a place in Texas now populated mostly by bigots from Louisiana.
Which seems appropriate.
[Also included in this group for convenience are Catholics who emigrated for the opportunities, one of the primary ones being the absence of social discrimination against them such as existed for a long time in the Netherlands.]
GROUP III
After World War Two many Dutch immigrants came over to rebuild their lives, including eventually a large number of Indies Dutch. Their children and grandchildren now take courses in the Dutch Studies department at Berkeley, which is part of the German Department. They speak Dutch badly if at all, and very often vaguely remember small towns that are completely unimportant.
GROUP IV
The fourth group is small, and consists of recent Dutchmen and Afrikaners who needed something bigger and better than late twentieth century old world society. They are a diverse bunch. The only things they have in common besides the language are support for the soccer team in the Eurochampionships and the World Cup, and a love of patat friet.
Usually with Mayonnaise.
PIETER HOEKSTRA
A man who may end up as Trump's CIA chief is former representative Peter ('Pete') Hoekstra, who represents both the second and the third wave. Who may or may not be a decent man. But his past-history suggests that he might have "issues" with Muslims and Chinese.
In 2012 he authorized what is widely considered the most repulsively anti-Asian political advertisement in modern times.
[See this article: Asians Talk Funny.]
Shan't say anymore than that.
As a Dutch American, I despair over anyone who came over in the second and third group. They often do not represent a damned thing with which I can identify, and far too frequently show their ass in public.
Not all of them are venal ignorant grubbers.
That's the best one can say.
Please note that America's greatest president, Franklin Delano Roosevelt (a distant relative) is from the first group, the New Amsterdammers.
By the way: Today is "Dutch-American Heritage Day".
There are a great many ways to celebrate it.
Being an asshole is just one of them.
Personally, I should think Boerenkoolstampot met Rookworst is best.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
GROUP I
The group which has been here the longest are descendants of the New Amsterdammers who came over in the early sixteen hundreds and settled in New York and New Jersey. Largely of solid stock, and by the turn of the nineteenth century into the twentieth fully integrated into WASP culture.
Despite a small number of them still speaking Dutch in a religious or family context they have seamlessly blended in.
[That, by the way, describes my family's Dutch heritage. The Van Xxxxxs trace their ancestry to Abraham and Isaac Van Xxxx, who arrived in 1630. The family nomenclature has since then deviated considerably, there are numerous variant spellings, misspellings, and complete changes, and intramarriage also confounds things. Good luck finding me in the phone book.]
GROUP II
Over one hundred years ago, deviant hard core countryside Calvinists from Groningen, Drenthe, Friesland, Zeeland, and Overijsel started coming over, largely settling in the Midwest. Holland (Michigan), Pella (Iowa), and a large number of stick-in-the-mud towns hither and yon that are sometimes unimaginatively named 'Nederland', such as a place in Texas now populated mostly by bigots from Louisiana.
Which seems appropriate.
[Also included in this group for convenience are Catholics who emigrated for the opportunities, one of the primary ones being the absence of social discrimination against them such as existed for a long time in the Netherlands.]
GROUP III
After World War Two many Dutch immigrants came over to rebuild their lives, including eventually a large number of Indies Dutch. Their children and grandchildren now take courses in the Dutch Studies department at Berkeley, which is part of the German Department. They speak Dutch badly if at all, and very often vaguely remember small towns that are completely unimportant.
GROUP IV
The fourth group is small, and consists of recent Dutchmen and Afrikaners who needed something bigger and better than late twentieth century old world society. They are a diverse bunch. The only things they have in common besides the language are support for the soccer team in the Eurochampionships and the World Cup, and a love of patat friet.
Usually with Mayonnaise.
PIETER HOEKSTRA
A man who may end up as Trump's CIA chief is former representative Peter ('Pete') Hoekstra, who represents both the second and the third wave. Who may or may not be a decent man. But his past-history suggests that he might have "issues" with Muslims and Chinese.
In 2012 he authorized what is widely considered the most repulsively anti-Asian political advertisement in modern times.
[See this article: Asians Talk Funny.]
Shan't say anymore than that.
As a Dutch American, I despair over anyone who came over in the second and third group. They often do not represent a damned thing with which I can identify, and far too frequently show their ass in public.
Not all of them are venal ignorant grubbers.
That's the best one can say.
Please note that America's greatest president, Franklin Delano Roosevelt (a distant relative) is from the first group, the New Amsterdammers.
By the way: Today is "Dutch-American Heritage Day".
There are a great many ways to celebrate it.
Being an asshole is just one of them.
Personally, I should think Boerenkoolstampot met Rookworst is best.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
LITTLE GAY SPICES
The apartment mate was tired last night, but ever so glad to start cooking something. And she was pleased as punch to have rainbow peppercorns. Who, apparently, steal the monkey's thunder, what with being all happy and cheerful and marching down the street on the last Sunday in June waving their colourful little banners.
No, not a clue what she was preparing. I left the kitchen because I heard the one-legged monkey lamenting.
"Oo-hoo, oo-hoo! Unkindious!"
All of this is part on the ongoing dialogue, in which the Asperger syndrome apartment mate expresses different facets of her personality by voicing for small stuffed animals (a multitude) and inanimate objects (mortar, pestle, and peppercorns), and I play my part by vociferously arguing with them, and telling them no they cannot have banana ice cream tonight and no that's my wallet I shall NOT let you use my credit card.
Apparently I am a monumental meanie.
Which is probably why I had the vision of the little rainbow peppercorns hippity-hoppeting down the street on LGBT Pride Sunday.
With sashes and other tiny finery.
And the monkey struggling desperately to keep up, what with being one-legged and all, and not at all sure why he's showing solidarity with them, but he was told that there would be banana ice cream afterwards.
They move too fast, and no one is paying any attention to him.
He avers that that is my fault.
I am unkindious!
I moved my unkindious rump to the teevee room and continued digesting the pizza I had eaten earlier. The apartment mate continued cooking whatever in the kitchen. And the monkey continued mouthing off.
This is all normal. It's a process.
I no longer apologize for the lack of banana ice cream.
Bananas are delicious, but they make me itch.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
No, not a clue what she was preparing. I left the kitchen because I heard the one-legged monkey lamenting.
"Oo-hoo, oo-hoo! Unkindious!"
All of this is part on the ongoing dialogue, in which the Asperger syndrome apartment mate expresses different facets of her personality by voicing for small stuffed animals (a multitude) and inanimate objects (mortar, pestle, and peppercorns), and I play my part by vociferously arguing with them, and telling them no they cannot have banana ice cream tonight and no that's my wallet I shall NOT let you use my credit card.
Apparently I am a monumental meanie.
Which is probably why I had the vision of the little rainbow peppercorns hippity-hoppeting down the street on LGBT Pride Sunday.
With sashes and other tiny finery.
And the monkey struggling desperately to keep up, what with being one-legged and all, and not at all sure why he's showing solidarity with them, but he was told that there would be banana ice cream afterwards.
They move too fast, and no one is paying any attention to him.
He avers that that is my fault.
I am unkindious!
I moved my unkindious rump to the teevee room and continued digesting the pizza I had eaten earlier. The apartment mate continued cooking whatever in the kitchen. And the monkey continued mouthing off.
This is all normal. It's a process.
I no longer apologize for the lack of banana ice cream.
Bananas are delicious, but they make me itch.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, November 15, 2016
SMOKELY DOKELY, NEIGHBORINO
During my working days I am different. Social, but within a very narrow context. This is a question of talent, but not inclination, as while I like people to a certain extent, I often rather wish they would go away. There are far too many of them, this world would be a much better place if there were more forests, covering ninety percent plus of the urban area instead of ranch homes. Tall ancient trees, piles of leaves, dense undergrowth, and half-light in shafts coming through the canopy. Fog, crunchy leaves, mossy patches, the tannic smells of autumn, distance-come whisps of wood smoke.
Alert and pre-occupied weasels, crows, and badgers.
Not throngs of them, but a few.
Perhaps a general store and a teashop at the end of a shaded path.
And a tobacconist, where one might buy the weekly supply.
Catering primarily to pipe-smokers, of course.
[Yes, Balkan Sobranie in the white tin is no more, along with Sullivan & Powell, and many other comforting products, but Rattrays, and Astleys, and Fribourg & Treyer, still exist, now through Kohlhase & Kopp, who took over the entire McConnell portfolio and produce all of those plus McConnell's own name brand products, and there are several other tobacco mixtures still available whose reek is gilded by fond memory.]
Mr. Badger is not particularly upset that all of the Oliva Melanio Series 'V' Figurados are gone, or that there will be no more of them. Shan't even ask why they won't be carried in the future. It's still a damned fine cigar, but Mr. Badger is primarily a pipe smoker, and has seen enough misbehaviour and severe judgmental lapses from the cigar crowd that he cannot possibly feel their butt-hurt. Sorry, no sympathy whatsoever.
Rabid stogy freaks.
As I see it, the cigar smokers exist primarily for my entertainment, which they only sometimes provide. Throughout the day I happily putter around, sometimes spending several hours cleaning up pipes, talking to fellow pipe smokers about minutiae such as for instance that Penzance, while indeed a rather splendid product, is like all mottled Oriental flakes rather too mild and consequently somewhat uninteresting (though Russ Oullette's version of Bengal Slices is an exception, being marvelously pongy), or that Germain and Son almost always go for high moisture content and a stringy cut.
This excites them, I don't quite know why.
Their snouts quiver happily.
You should also know that putting a very subtle bevel on the inside rim regularizes a bowl-mouth that because of reaming over the years became slightly off-round.
That last item relates to a pipe which a friend gave me on Sunday. It has that look from a calmer and gentler age, recalling the dancing dust motes, sunlight, nineteen fifties office environments, black and white photos, the pre and postwar years, trench coats and propeller planes. As well as the nineteen sixties, before colours became garish, and tastes pedestrian.
No, I did not experience that myself. My parents did. And it probably wasn't that way for them. By the time I started paying attention to such things, avocado green and tie-dye had become fashionable.
I had silver grey corduroys at one point.
And wore loud plaid shirts.
I regret that.
It is a rather lovely pipe, especially now that I've worked on it. Perfectly suited to a badger or other medium-sized forest creature. One can imagine furry whiskers and bright eyes behind it. An air of calmness to the snouted mien, and a very large broad cup of strong tea with milk nearby, as well as a big polished glass ashtray.
[Peterson nickel military mount straight billiard, shape 53 (like a modern era '31'). Stamped "K & P", and "Irish made". It is by my estimate a few decades old. Très elegant.]
You should smoke Germain's Eighteen Twenty. A medium-full English, very well balanced, with Latakia, Turkish, and flue-cured leaf in perfect harmony. I do not have enough stockpiled, and the famous Germains bottleneck precludes any rapid expansion of my supply.
[If you like both Dunhill Standard Mixture and Solomon's Presbyterian, you will appreciate Eighteen Twenty. It is civilized, solid, and reliable.]
It's one of those products from long ago. Before the tattooed video game players and strange basement-dwelling Vikings took up pipe smoking and started demanding strong Kentucky, Perique up to twenty percent, or so much Latakia you could smell the burning oil fields of Kuwait.
Or, saints forefend, a black cherry overload cavendish.
Put the pipe and the tobacco together, and you can just sit back and gloat. Bah, young fellow, you are rather infantile, and that Harley does not make you any better. We both smoke pipes, jolly good for you, but I'd rather you drank your pumpkin spice soy latte elsewhere.
Fortunately I don't have to worry about the wanna-be juvenile delinquent millennials this afternoon when I leave the house. They seldom visit Chinatown for milk-tea and snackies.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Alert and pre-occupied weasels, crows, and badgers.
Not throngs of them, but a few.
Perhaps a general store and a teashop at the end of a shaded path.
And a tobacconist, where one might buy the weekly supply.
Catering primarily to pipe-smokers, of course.
[Yes, Balkan Sobranie in the white tin is no more, along with Sullivan & Powell, and many other comforting products, but Rattrays, and Astleys, and Fribourg & Treyer, still exist, now through Kohlhase & Kopp, who took over the entire McConnell portfolio and produce all of those plus McConnell's own name brand products, and there are several other tobacco mixtures still available whose reek is gilded by fond memory.]
Mr. Badger is not particularly upset that all of the Oliva Melanio Series 'V' Figurados are gone, or that there will be no more of them. Shan't even ask why they won't be carried in the future. It's still a damned fine cigar, but Mr. Badger is primarily a pipe smoker, and has seen enough misbehaviour and severe judgmental lapses from the cigar crowd that he cannot possibly feel their butt-hurt. Sorry, no sympathy whatsoever.
Rabid stogy freaks.
As I see it, the cigar smokers exist primarily for my entertainment, which they only sometimes provide. Throughout the day I happily putter around, sometimes spending several hours cleaning up pipes, talking to fellow pipe smokers about minutiae such as for instance that Penzance, while indeed a rather splendid product, is like all mottled Oriental flakes rather too mild and consequently somewhat uninteresting (though Russ Oullette's version of Bengal Slices is an exception, being marvelously pongy), or that Germain and Son almost always go for high moisture content and a stringy cut.
This excites them, I don't quite know why.
Their snouts quiver happily.
You should also know that putting a very subtle bevel on the inside rim regularizes a bowl-mouth that because of reaming over the years became slightly off-round.
That last item relates to a pipe which a friend gave me on Sunday. It has that look from a calmer and gentler age, recalling the dancing dust motes, sunlight, nineteen fifties office environments, black and white photos, the pre and postwar years, trench coats and propeller planes. As well as the nineteen sixties, before colours became garish, and tastes pedestrian.
No, I did not experience that myself. My parents did. And it probably wasn't that way for them. By the time I started paying attention to such things, avocado green and tie-dye had become fashionable.
I had silver grey corduroys at one point.
And wore loud plaid shirts.
I regret that.
It is a rather lovely pipe, especially now that I've worked on it. Perfectly suited to a badger or other medium-sized forest creature. One can imagine furry whiskers and bright eyes behind it. An air of calmness to the snouted mien, and a very large broad cup of strong tea with milk nearby, as well as a big polished glass ashtray.
[Peterson nickel military mount straight billiard, shape 53 (like a modern era '31'). Stamped "K & P", and "Irish made". It is by my estimate a few decades old. Très elegant.]
You should smoke Germain's Eighteen Twenty. A medium-full English, very well balanced, with Latakia, Turkish, and flue-cured leaf in perfect harmony. I do not have enough stockpiled, and the famous Germains bottleneck precludes any rapid expansion of my supply.
[If you like both Dunhill Standard Mixture and Solomon's Presbyterian, you will appreciate Eighteen Twenty. It is civilized, solid, and reliable.]
It's one of those products from long ago. Before the tattooed video game players and strange basement-dwelling Vikings took up pipe smoking and started demanding strong Kentucky, Perique up to twenty percent, or so much Latakia you could smell the burning oil fields of Kuwait.
Or, saints forefend, a black cherry overload cavendish.
Put the pipe and the tobacco together, and you can just sit back and gloat. Bah, young fellow, you are rather infantile, and that Harley does not make you any better. We both smoke pipes, jolly good for you, but I'd rather you drank your pumpkin spice soy latte elsewhere.
Fortunately I don't have to worry about the wanna-be juvenile delinquent millennials this afternoon when I leave the house. They seldom visit Chinatown for milk-tea and snackies.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
CAREFULLY CHARACTERIZED PUNDITRY
Scarcely a week since Cheeto MacSquigglyfingers won the election, and already his harpy-in-chief is throwing her weight around.
"I find Harry Reid’s public comments and insults about Donald Trump and other Republicans to be beyond the pale, they're incredibly disappointing and he should be very careful about characterizing somebody in the legal sense. He thinks he’s just being some kind of political pundit there, but I would say be very careful about the way you characterize it."
----- Kellyanne Conway
Oh stuff a sock in it, you horse-jawed old slag. If someone fondly thinks of Trumperdoodles as possibly a child molester, debatably a sociopath, as well as a rancid poo-gibbon, let them. It's called the First Amendment.
Be more worried about how one might characterize you.
In both a moral and an ethical sense.
Get Mercerized.
Twit.
PS.: George Soros did not pay for this opinion.
Donations are welcome.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
"I find Harry Reid’s public comments and insults about Donald Trump and other Republicans to be beyond the pale, they're incredibly disappointing and he should be very careful about characterizing somebody in the legal sense. He thinks he’s just being some kind of political pundit there, but I would say be very careful about the way you characterize it."
----- Kellyanne Conway
Oh stuff a sock in it, you horse-jawed old slag. If someone fondly thinks of Trumperdoodles as possibly a child molester, debatably a sociopath, as well as a rancid poo-gibbon, let them. It's called the First Amendment.
Be more worried about how one might characterize you.
In both a moral and an ethical sense.
Get Mercerized.
Twit.
PS.: George Soros did not pay for this opinion.
Donations are welcome.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, November 14, 2016
IT AIN'T THE CIGARS MAKING YOU STUPID
As a necessary change of subject, I shall talk about boxer shorts. Which are, as many men know, a stylish and attractive garment quite unlike "tidy-whities". The problem with "tidy-whities" is that they make you look like you just stepped out of a nineteen-seventies Sears Roebuck or JC Penney catalogue, besides constricting your scrotal details and leading directly to crotch-rot, a fungus affliction which eventually affects the brains of mature cigar-smoking gentlemen in Marin, to whom I have had to listen recently for three solid days.
The infection has made many of them fevered and irrational, and they believe that they are qualified to speak about politics. I've had to hear them pontificate during the entire period leading up to the election, and they have not become one whit more intelligent or convincing.
It's worse, far worse, post-election.
Dunning-Kruger effect.
Marin also suffers from a sickening sense of entitlement, but because that applies to both genders there, it cannot be ascribed to "tidy-whities". Still, it would be best if the women there also wore baggier garments, perhaps for entirely different reasons.
The only problem with boxer shorts, from this blogger's perspective, is that one may not be automatically aware of how they open up in front at a crucial moment. The overlapping fabric fools the panicked fingers, and one fumbles around. And if one of one's coworkers has irritable bowel, and another is cursed with a microscopically-sized nervous bladder, one dare not stay too long in the bathroom. It leads to a strained situation.
Related to that, one may in one's haste to leave the house in the morning (in San Francisco) have rushed the process of dressing a bit, and therefore at the moment one wishes to get rid of that first Marin cup of tea worry that perhaps one put the darned thing on backwards.
Can't feel the opening.
Where is it? Dammital, why does this ALWAYS happen?!?
Shan't mention how often I did put them on wrong way around, but suffice to say those were not my best days, and blue cotton fabric had a lot to do with that. Smooth, comfy, blue cotton.
The more I think about it, the more I am absolutely convinced that women, most particularly the charming ones, need to wear boxer shorts.
Whether they wear them correctly is immaterial.
Perhaps they'd enjoy the feeling of "otherness" at times?
The frisson of ventilation, or its suggestion.
Who knows?
I shall not speculate any further about the clothing of charming women.
Boxer shorts, backwards or not, are enough.
No need for anything else.
I am NOT a dirty old man, by the way.
Nor particularly a cigar smoker.
And I don't live in Marin.
I smoke a pipe.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The infection has made many of them fevered and irrational, and they believe that they are qualified to speak about politics. I've had to hear them pontificate during the entire period leading up to the election, and they have not become one whit more intelligent or convincing.
It's worse, far worse, post-election.
Dunning-Kruger effect.
Marin also suffers from a sickening sense of entitlement, but because that applies to both genders there, it cannot be ascribed to "tidy-whities". Still, it would be best if the women there also wore baggier garments, perhaps for entirely different reasons.
The only problem with boxer shorts, from this blogger's perspective, is that one may not be automatically aware of how they open up in front at a crucial moment. The overlapping fabric fools the panicked fingers, and one fumbles around. And if one of one's coworkers has irritable bowel, and another is cursed with a microscopically-sized nervous bladder, one dare not stay too long in the bathroom. It leads to a strained situation.
Related to that, one may in one's haste to leave the house in the morning (in San Francisco) have rushed the process of dressing a bit, and therefore at the moment one wishes to get rid of that first Marin cup of tea worry that perhaps one put the darned thing on backwards.
Can't feel the opening.
Where is it? Dammital, why does this ALWAYS happen?!?
Shan't mention how often I did put them on wrong way around, but suffice to say those were not my best days, and blue cotton fabric had a lot to do with that. Smooth, comfy, blue cotton.
The more I think about it, the more I am absolutely convinced that women, most particularly the charming ones, need to wear boxer shorts.
Whether they wear them correctly is immaterial.
Perhaps they'd enjoy the feeling of "otherness" at times?
The frisson of ventilation, or its suggestion.
Who knows?
I shall not speculate any further about the clothing of charming women.
Boxer shorts, backwards or not, are enough.
No need for anything else.
I am NOT a dirty old man, by the way.
Nor particularly a cigar smoker.
And I don't live in Marin.
I smoke a pipe.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
FABULOUS DESTRUCTION
It is shameful to admit, but ripping apart something someone else has lovingly constructed is actually great fun. They put their heart and soul into it, it is beautiful, and here I am just destroying it utterly while uttering yelps of savage joy. And dumping stuff on it. And leaving nothing but ruin.
Reducing every bit to fragments.
It was a carnitas burrito.
With extra cheese.
No beans.
Yes, my apartment mate spent too long in the kitchen last night, so I went around the corner for a bite to eat. The dumped stuff mentioned above was two different salsas, but I reversed the proportion of hot and mild because today is a work day and I am not particularly a risk taker.
Carnitas, properly done, are sort of half way between siu yiuk (燒肉) and charsiu (叉燒). It is made by simmering chunks of spiced Boston Butt in lard till completely tender, then crusting the pork a bit by increasing the heat. Once cooled, it is ripped or pulled apart, and done up with fixins; chopped onion, tomato salsa, chilies, and cilantro.
Used for taco stuffing.
Or, with sublime grace and tenderness, layered among rice and shredded cheese, salsa drooled over, and all of that rolled up in a burrito.
So good, so good.
A feast!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Reducing every bit to fragments.
It was a carnitas burrito.
With extra cheese.
No beans.
Yes, my apartment mate spent too long in the kitchen last night, so I went around the corner for a bite to eat. The dumped stuff mentioned above was two different salsas, but I reversed the proportion of hot and mild because today is a work day and I am not particularly a risk taker.
Carnitas, properly done, are sort of half way between siu yiuk (燒肉) and charsiu (叉燒). It is made by simmering chunks of spiced Boston Butt in lard till completely tender, then crusting the pork a bit by increasing the heat. Once cooled, it is ripped or pulled apart, and done up with fixins; chopped onion, tomato salsa, chilies, and cilantro.
Used for taco stuffing.
Or, with sublime grace and tenderness, layered among rice and shredded cheese, salsa drooled over, and all of that rolled up in a burrito.
So good, so good.
A feast!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, November 13, 2016
TEXTURE, TASTE, AND PEP
A man should know how to cook. That's just the way it is. If you like good food it is perfectly self-interested to figure out how to prepare it.
Dessert last night was Chinese broccoli with eggs.
Very delicious.
Didn't bother with rice or noodles. I could've done noodles, they don't take long to cook, but I was having too much fun with the frypan.
[This comes to mind because at present my apartment mate is hogging up the kitchen, and it will be at least an hour before I can prepare something to eat. She's braising two huge fleisch-thingies in there. Stuffed fleisch with something or other. It smells delicious.
Her and her boyfriend will feast sometime this week.
I swear, she's become a better cook since she broke up with that previous boyfriend a few years ago and started hanging with Wheelie Boy (the American-born Russian Jew in a wheelchair). But I had a salad with hot sauce not too long ago, so no biggie.]
Chinese broccoli (芥蘭 'gai lan') is rather like oil vegetable (油菜 'yau choi') and mustard (芥菜 'gai choi'). All three have a pleasing bitterness and crunch, and are very hard to muck up, provided you remember that the stalks need more cooking than the leaf. Either add them to the pan first, or blanch them beforehand.
I think my mother would not have like them, and would have found some excuse to keep them out of the house. Reason being that such veggies would have upset her rigid dietary applecart. Food was fuel, food was a building block, and food at set times was regrettably necessary. If it was fun, something must have been wrong. Food was NOT SUPPOSED TO BE FUN! Fun made it somehow less nutritious.
Acceptable vegetables: lettuce, tomato, bell pepper, celery, carrots, string beans, fresh garden peas (these last two required very long cooking).
All meat dishes and spaghetti sauces needed onion, to cut the fat.
Vegetables were best in chunk-form, raw and plain.
It preserved their nutritional value.
NO cabbage EVER!
Cauliflower was also arguably edible, but too much effort to prepare, and should in any case only be served raw with a bland Russian dressing. Which is just ketchup and mayonnaise mixed together with no addition of horseradish, pimientos, and tabasco. It would probably have quite horrified her to know that that is also known as tostone sauce.
Tostone just sounds so non-nutritious.
And suspiciously wrong.
I don't mind carrots, but I haven't eaten them in years. I am completely unexcited by peas; if I never eat a pea again, I'll be perfectly happy.
Spices were also on her suspect list. She would very sparingly employ paprika, dried parsley, caraway seed, black pepper, and a bay leaf.
And avoid all other spices as much as possible.
No garlic, no ginger, no chili.
[Let us politely not mention the very many jars of condiments, sambal, and containers of ketumbar, kunyit, temo kuntji, lengkuas, trassi, and other horrors, that my father and I hid just a little bit further down the concrete cellar stairs, where she would not venture because they were steep, and she had arthritis as well ménière's syndrome. Yes. No mention.]
The only exception was chicken with paprika.
Nothing sparing about that.
Perhaps in reaction to her food ideas, and almost certainly in defiant gustatory affection for the foods of various aunties (Indonesian Dutch ladies), my own cooking embraces brash boldness.
I want my food to be fun.
THE COLONEL'S DAUGHTER
My mother was culinarily a product of a time, a place, and a class.
Food, you understand, is a caste marker. The poor and uneducated went for flavour, the enlightened classes left that kind of stuff to restaurants and served their families sanctified nutrition at home. Learning how to cook beyond functional edibility was considered rather a waste of time.
Beef curry was a treat if someone else (my dad) cooked it, spaghetti a not infrequent ritual (but would have to be nutritious, no matter how Bohemian it was to serve), and steak or chops were the proper proteins for dinner, as everyone knew, accompanied by two vegs, a starch, and a salad.
And the table would be set properly.
Red wine with dinner perhaps. White is for flibberty-gibbets.
Or fish. If you risked serving that. Which you shouldn't.
During her last few years I did most of the cooking, and maintained her standards whenever she was home from the hospital. Which was the right thing to do. She died when I was seventeen.
Sad to say, once she passed away I became a food anarchist entirely. The only time I set the table now is when I do Indian or Indonesian food, only because it tastes better with the appropriate table silver and plates.
By her standards, what I eat nowadays is not decent food at all.
It's probably not extremely bad for me, but it's far too adventurous.
Those stalky Chinese things? People didn't used to eat that!
The noble garden pea. Now that's a vegetable.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Dessert last night was Chinese broccoli with eggs.
Very delicious.
Didn't bother with rice or noodles. I could've done noodles, they don't take long to cook, but I was having too much fun with the frypan.
[This comes to mind because at present my apartment mate is hogging up the kitchen, and it will be at least an hour before I can prepare something to eat. She's braising two huge fleisch-thingies in there. Stuffed fleisch with something or other. It smells delicious.
Her and her boyfriend will feast sometime this week.
I swear, she's become a better cook since she broke up with that previous boyfriend a few years ago and started hanging with Wheelie Boy (the American-born Russian Jew in a wheelchair). But I had a salad with hot sauce not too long ago, so no biggie.]
Chinese broccoli (芥蘭 'gai lan') is rather like oil vegetable (油菜 'yau choi') and mustard (芥菜 'gai choi'). All three have a pleasing bitterness and crunch, and are very hard to muck up, provided you remember that the stalks need more cooking than the leaf. Either add them to the pan first, or blanch them beforehand.
I think my mother would not have like them, and would have found some excuse to keep them out of the house. Reason being that such veggies would have upset her rigid dietary applecart. Food was fuel, food was a building block, and food at set times was regrettably necessary. If it was fun, something must have been wrong. Food was NOT SUPPOSED TO BE FUN! Fun made it somehow less nutritious.
Acceptable vegetables: lettuce, tomato, bell pepper, celery, carrots, string beans, fresh garden peas (these last two required very long cooking).
All meat dishes and spaghetti sauces needed onion, to cut the fat.
Vegetables were best in chunk-form, raw and plain.
It preserved their nutritional value.
NO cabbage EVER!
Cauliflower was also arguably edible, but too much effort to prepare, and should in any case only be served raw with a bland Russian dressing. Which is just ketchup and mayonnaise mixed together with no addition of horseradish, pimientos, and tabasco. It would probably have quite horrified her to know that that is also known as tostone sauce.
Tostone just sounds so non-nutritious.
And suspiciously wrong.
I don't mind carrots, but I haven't eaten them in years. I am completely unexcited by peas; if I never eat a pea again, I'll be perfectly happy.
Spices were also on her suspect list. She would very sparingly employ paprika, dried parsley, caraway seed, black pepper, and a bay leaf.
And avoid all other spices as much as possible.
No garlic, no ginger, no chili.
[Let us politely not mention the very many jars of condiments, sambal, and containers of ketumbar, kunyit, temo kuntji, lengkuas, trassi, and other horrors, that my father and I hid just a little bit further down the concrete cellar stairs, where she would not venture because they were steep, and she had arthritis as well ménière's syndrome. Yes. No mention.]
The only exception was chicken with paprika.
Nothing sparing about that.
Perhaps in reaction to her food ideas, and almost certainly in defiant gustatory affection for the foods of various aunties (Indonesian Dutch ladies), my own cooking embraces brash boldness.
I want my food to be fun.
THE COLONEL'S DAUGHTER
My mother was culinarily a product of a time, a place, and a class.
Food, you understand, is a caste marker. The poor and uneducated went for flavour, the enlightened classes left that kind of stuff to restaurants and served their families sanctified nutrition at home. Learning how to cook beyond functional edibility was considered rather a waste of time.
Beef curry was a treat if someone else (my dad) cooked it, spaghetti a not infrequent ritual (but would have to be nutritious, no matter how Bohemian it was to serve), and steak or chops were the proper proteins for dinner, as everyone knew, accompanied by two vegs, a starch, and a salad.
And the table would be set properly.
Red wine with dinner perhaps. White is for flibberty-gibbets.
Or fish. If you risked serving that. Which you shouldn't.
During her last few years I did most of the cooking, and maintained her standards whenever she was home from the hospital. Which was the right thing to do. She died when I was seventeen.
Sad to say, once she passed away I became a food anarchist entirely. The only time I set the table now is when I do Indian or Indonesian food, only because it tastes better with the appropriate table silver and plates.
By her standards, what I eat nowadays is not decent food at all.
It's probably not extremely bad for me, but it's far too adventurous.
Those stalky Chinese things? People didn't used to eat that!
The noble garden pea. Now that's a vegetable.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
FURIOUSLY SOUNDING THE CLOWN HORNS
For several days in a row people have been protesting the election of Trump. And the obvious defectiveness of their fellow Americans outside the Bay Area. Oh, the outrage!
Naturally their petulance has not gone unnoticed.
The rest of the country is giggling.
Tittering, even.
Clearly, democracy is not the solution, what this world needs is a benevolent dictatorship by highly educated righteous people.
As well as more broken plate glass and trash can fires on Telegraph Avenue and Broadway in Oakland.
While I have absolutely no clue what my fellow liberals hope to achieve by these tantrums, I can only approve of destruction in Oakland. Oakland assuredly deserves this, and Oakland is the best place for broken glass.
Destructive mobs are in fact the signature of Oakland, the place wouldn't be the same without them, even though most of the rioters are either Berkeley college students or white teenagers from the suburbs.
All true San Franciscans support vandalism across the Bay.
Show your spirit, Oakland, set fires in the recyclables!
Destroy retail businesses in your downtown!
Shake your fisties in righteous fury.
It's the correct thing to do.
To my fellow liberals in San Francisco, I agree with you that tromping around in the empty Financial District after dark shouting incomprehensibly is a VERY good way of effecting change.
It makes the capitalist ruling class quake in their very boots; bourgeois running dogs world wide are fearful and attentive of your anger.
And it's stupendously sexy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Naturally their petulance has not gone unnoticed.
The rest of the country is giggling.
Tittering, even.
Clearly, democracy is not the solution, what this world needs is a benevolent dictatorship by highly educated righteous people.
As well as more broken plate glass and trash can fires on Telegraph Avenue and Broadway in Oakland.
While I have absolutely no clue what my fellow liberals hope to achieve by these tantrums, I can only approve of destruction in Oakland. Oakland assuredly deserves this, and Oakland is the best place for broken glass.
Destructive mobs are in fact the signature of Oakland, the place wouldn't be the same without them, even though most of the rioters are either Berkeley college students or white teenagers from the suburbs.
All true San Franciscans support vandalism across the Bay.
Show your spirit, Oakland, set fires in the recyclables!
Destroy retail businesses in your downtown!
Shake your fisties in righteous fury.
It's the correct thing to do.
To my fellow liberals in San Francisco, I agree with you that tromping around in the empty Financial District after dark shouting incomprehensibly is a VERY good way of effecting change.
It makes the capitalist ruling class quake in their very boots; bourgeois running dogs world wide are fearful and attentive of your anger.
And it's stupendously sexy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, November 12, 2016
MAN MAN: DO IT LEISURELY, WHATEVER IT IS
There are several people in Chinatown who always warmly welcome me whenever I enter their place of business. They are very glad to see me, speak to me in Cantonese, and genuinely wish me to leisurely enjoy whatever food and drink I purchase.
It's not just normal customer relations; they are used to me, and we exchange pleasantries.
It took me a while to figure out what was going on.
There is nothing quite so safe as a reasonably clean and courteous middle-aged white dude who is not a screaming loony.
Reassuring, too.
This is San Francisco. We are just about chock-full of screaming loonies here. Likewise tattooed freaks, artistic eccentrics, and downright filthy people who are immensely self-impressed.
Finally discovering a grown-up white person who has not developed into a remarkably weird and cocksure extrovert, totally unpredictable except for the disturbance factor, tells them they did not make a mistake in coming to this country, sanity is indeed possible if and when you finally decide to become white.
One of the ladies seems to believe my parents were Chinese people whose child or children for some misfortunate reason ended up Caucasian. She's from Terrace Mountain, and may not have heard of Gregor Mendel. The Cultural Revolution was going on when she would have taken highschool science classes, and genetics is NOT as revolutionarily correct as vigorous Marxist-Leninist dialectic. Either that or the school was burned down.
Because, naturally, it was a bastion of bourgeoisity.
Some kids act white, some are white.
It happens.
On the one hand, I have spent my whole life being a reasonably clean and courteous middle-aged white dude who is not a screaming loony. And on the other, they never see me outside of Chinatown, so my secret is safe.
When not constrained by calm Chinatown Cantonese social norms, I will usually grub-like molt and shed my human skin, like Edgar the Bug in Men In Black, and dance on tables wearing a lampshade.
My disguise is perfect.
Chinatown is where I go to calm down. It is very restful to have a snackie somewhere there, and then go watch the sportive types at Woo Woo or the elderly gamblers in Portsmouth Square while smoking a pipe.
I like to pretend I'm human when I do that.
The six-limbed hopping terror comes afterwards.
Fangs and slime.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It's not just normal customer relations; they are used to me, and we exchange pleasantries.
It took me a while to figure out what was going on.
There is nothing quite so safe as a reasonably clean and courteous middle-aged white dude who is not a screaming loony.
Reassuring, too.
This is San Francisco. We are just about chock-full of screaming loonies here. Likewise tattooed freaks, artistic eccentrics, and downright filthy people who are immensely self-impressed.
Finally discovering a grown-up white person who has not developed into a remarkably weird and cocksure extrovert, totally unpredictable except for the disturbance factor, tells them they did not make a mistake in coming to this country, sanity is indeed possible if and when you finally decide to become white.
One of the ladies seems to believe my parents were Chinese people whose child or children for some misfortunate reason ended up Caucasian. She's from Terrace Mountain, and may not have heard of Gregor Mendel. The Cultural Revolution was going on when she would have taken highschool science classes, and genetics is NOT as revolutionarily correct as vigorous Marxist-Leninist dialectic. Either that or the school was burned down.
Because, naturally, it was a bastion of bourgeoisity.
Some kids act white, some are white.
It happens.
On the one hand, I have spent my whole life being a reasonably clean and courteous middle-aged white dude who is not a screaming loony. And on the other, they never see me outside of Chinatown, so my secret is safe.
When not constrained by calm Chinatown Cantonese social norms, I will usually grub-like molt and shed my human skin, like Edgar the Bug in Men In Black, and dance on tables wearing a lampshade.
[SOURCE: http://villains.wikia.com/wiki/Edgar_the_Bug.]
My disguise is perfect.
Chinatown is where I go to calm down. It is very restful to have a snackie somewhere there, and then go watch the sportive types at Woo Woo or the elderly gamblers in Portsmouth Square while smoking a pipe.
I like to pretend I'm human when I do that.
The six-limbed hopping terror comes afterwards.
Fangs and slime.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, November 11, 2016
VIM AND VIGOUR
Now that a number of places have legalized marijuana, it makes sense to seriously consider relaxing the regulations on many other powerful medicinal substances in recognition of their usefulness.
One of which is methamphetamine.
This blog feels that overlooking the value of this tonic is something our country cannot afford to do any longer, especially with huge numbers of jobs soon returning to America. People who haven't done farmwork in decades will need all the help they can get, as well as pharmaceutical encouragement. Methamphetamine soothes tired muscles and enables long hours of productive work, and the newly employed will be surprised by how much they can accomplish as well as their improved efficiency.
Methamphetamine is miraculous, we dare not deny ourselves its benefits. The new agricultural class will surely experience a surge of pride when they see the results of their labour, their drive and enthusiasm will lead them to new heights of achievement. We must unleash that potential.
Methamphetamine is the boost we need.
IT'S LIKE RED BULL ON STEROIDS!
Methamphetamine's usefulness is attested by the experience of several nations which took bold steps and employed methamphetamine to very great effect -- both Germany and Japan made methamphetamine available to workers during the forties, the Soviets provided it to their gulags and factories, and even today North Korea boosts production and soothes their workers with it -- and pharmaceutics have improved considerably since the diet-pill fad; it is time to invite this beneficial substance back out of the closet and return it to its role in American life.
Why do foreign students consistently outperform Americans academically?
It is because they have the help of methamphetamines. It would be an injustice to continue denying our own people that tool.
Just coffee alone is not enough.
Bah, Starbucks!
Creativity and inventiveness have made small scale methamphetamine production a cottage industry in many parts of this country; with proper encouragement this wondrous all-American chemical can become a great new enterprise, and improve the lives of millions of citizens.
As well as legal residents.
A leaner, trimmer, and more energetic America awaits.
When we legalize methamphetamine, we will return America to its rightful place as leader of the Free World, restore her greatness, and together stride forward with renewed confidence toward a brave new world.
Re-energize the U.S.A.!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
One of which is methamphetamine.
This blog feels that overlooking the value of this tonic is something our country cannot afford to do any longer, especially with huge numbers of jobs soon returning to America. People who haven't done farmwork in decades will need all the help they can get, as well as pharmaceutical encouragement. Methamphetamine soothes tired muscles and enables long hours of productive work, and the newly employed will be surprised by how much they can accomplish as well as their improved efficiency.
Methamphetamine is miraculous, we dare not deny ourselves its benefits. The new agricultural class will surely experience a surge of pride when they see the results of their labour, their drive and enthusiasm will lead them to new heights of achievement. We must unleash that potential.
Methamphetamine is the boost we need.
IT'S LIKE RED BULL ON STEROIDS!
Methamphetamine's usefulness is attested by the experience of several nations which took bold steps and employed methamphetamine to very great effect -- both Germany and Japan made methamphetamine available to workers during the forties, the Soviets provided it to their gulags and factories, and even today North Korea boosts production and soothes their workers with it -- and pharmaceutics have improved considerably since the diet-pill fad; it is time to invite this beneficial substance back out of the closet and return it to its role in American life.
Why do foreign students consistently outperform Americans academically?
It is because they have the help of methamphetamines. It would be an injustice to continue denying our own people that tool.
Just coffee alone is not enough.
Bah, Starbucks!
Creativity and inventiveness have made small scale methamphetamine production a cottage industry in many parts of this country; with proper encouragement this wondrous all-American chemical can become a great new enterprise, and improve the lives of millions of citizens.
As well as legal residents.
A leaner, trimmer, and more energetic America awaits.
When we legalize methamphetamine, we will return America to its rightful place as leader of the Free World, restore her greatness, and together stride forward with renewed confidence toward a brave new world.
Re-energize the U.S.A.!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, November 10, 2016
A CHANGE OF SUBJECT: THE SPITTOON
In order to take your mind off the recent disaster, here's a list of expressive terms that you might enjoy learning.
痰罐話
傻仔 'so jai': idiot, fool, dunderhead, severely defective person, such as somebody from Texas or Florida. Mostly, Texans.
木嘴 'muk jeui': an idiot, an addle pate; Republican.
一嚿飯 'yat gau faan': lump of rice; a brainless twat, somebody without shape, form, definition, or ideas; Louis Gomert.
墨魚頭 'mok yü tau': a cuttlefish head, which is empty and useless. For instance a typical voter. In Texas. Or Florida. Or Louisiana. Or all of the South, the Midwest, and the montane wastelands.
麻甩佬 'maa lat lou': sexual harasser, sexist pig.
壞蛋 'waai daan': rotten egg; a thoroughly despicable person. Rudolph Giuliani, et aliis.
龜蛋 'gwai daan': turtle egg; a fool and a cad.
爛仔 'laan chai': a thoroughly rotten scoundrel.
鴇 'pou': aging procuress, harpy, but also a Cossack slut. Bustard (bird).
Anne Coulter, Pamela Geller, Debbie Schlussel, Carrie Almond.
蠢人 'cheun yan': dunderhead. Imbecile. Geert Wilders.
貪污腐敗 'taam wu fu pai': "greedy filthy rotten and declining". Hence 貪污腐敗幫 ('taam wu fu pai pong'), a corrupt gang or clique within the government or society (many destructive fundie and political cliques, such as the NRA, the Family Research Council, the Eagle Forum, the Heritage Foundation, the Teaparty Movement, Christian Apocalyptics, Fox News, and Michele Bachman), and 貪污腐敗幫黨 ('taam wu fu pai tong'), the Republican Party (痰罐黨 for short).
燈紅酒綠 'tang hung jau luk': "lanterns red (and) liquor green", meaning debauched and licentious, depraved, like Jeffrey Epstein
共和黨人這些卑鄙的貪惏混蛋！
['gung wo tong yan je se bei-pei dik taam-laam wan-daan']
Please note that NONE of these terms are obscene or unprintable.
That vocabulary is not really something you need to know. Yet.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
痰罐話
傻仔 'so jai': idiot, fool, dunderhead, severely defective person, such as somebody from Texas or Florida. Mostly, Texans.
木嘴 'muk jeui': an idiot, an addle pate; Republican.
一嚿飯 'yat gau faan': lump of rice; a brainless twat, somebody without shape, form, definition, or ideas; Louis Gomert.
墨魚頭 'mok yü tau': a cuttlefish head, which is empty and useless. For instance a typical voter. In Texas. Or Florida. Or Louisiana. Or all of the South, the Midwest, and the montane wastelands.
麻甩佬 'maa lat lou': sexual harasser, sexist pig.
壞蛋 'waai daan': rotten egg; a thoroughly despicable person. Rudolph Giuliani, et aliis.
龜蛋 'gwai daan': turtle egg; a fool and a cad.
爛仔 'laan chai': a thoroughly rotten scoundrel.
鴇 'pou': aging procuress, harpy, but also a Cossack slut. Bustard (bird).
Anne Coulter, Pamela Geller, Debbie Schlussel, Carrie Almond.
蠢人 'cheun yan': dunderhead. Imbecile. Geert Wilders.
貪污腐敗 'taam wu fu pai': "greedy filthy rotten and declining". Hence 貪污腐敗幫 ('taam wu fu pai pong'), a corrupt gang or clique within the government or society (many destructive fundie and political cliques, such as the NRA, the Family Research Council, the Eagle Forum, the Heritage Foundation, the Teaparty Movement, Christian Apocalyptics, Fox News, and Michele Bachman), and 貪污腐敗幫黨 ('taam wu fu pai tong'), the Republican Party (痰罐黨 for short).
燈紅酒綠 'tang hung jau luk': "lanterns red (and) liquor green", meaning debauched and licentious, depraved, like Jeffrey Epstein
共和黨人這些卑鄙的貪惏混蛋！
['gung wo tong yan je se bei-pei dik taam-laam wan-daan']
Please note that NONE of these terms are obscene or unprintable.
That vocabulary is not really something you need to know. Yet.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, November 09, 2016
BUILD A WALL
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I'M NOT SUGGESTING A DAMNED THING
Several items:
"The Consulate-General of Russia in San Francisco is a diplomatic mission in the 2790 Green Street building in Pacific Heights, San Francisco. It is operated by the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs."
Address: 2790 Green St, San Francisco, CA 94123
Phone: (415) 928-6878
"Next SFGOP Meeting
Wednesday, November 16, 2016 at 6:30 PM
Runway Incubators: 1355 Market Street, San Francisco, CA "
Also:
We are the West Coast. We can survive four years of the rest of the country being destroyed. We don't need Texas. We will ignore as best we can what the inbreds in flyoverstan have wrought. And we will sabotage everything that carrot-faced shit-gibbon tries to do.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
"The Consulate-General of Russia in San Francisco is a diplomatic mission in the 2790 Green Street building in Pacific Heights, San Francisco. It is operated by the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs."
Address: 2790 Green St, San Francisco, CA 94123
Phone: (415) 928-6878
"Next SFGOP Meeting
Wednesday, November 16, 2016 at 6:30 PM
Runway Incubators: 1355 Market Street, San Francisco, CA "
Also:
We are the West Coast. We can survive four years of the rest of the country being destroyed. We don't need Texas. We will ignore as best we can what the inbreds in flyoverstan have wrought. And we will sabotage everything that carrot-faced shit-gibbon tries to do.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, November 08, 2016
AMERICA AND HER ORANGE-FACED BUFFOON
Well, I voted. There was no line, there were no trolls, and it took all of ten minutes or less. Several candidates, several propositions. The poll volunteers consisted of a perfect cross-section of the San Francisco population. A full spectrum of ages: one African American, one Hispanic American, one Asian American, and a white guy.
Excuse me, White Guy American.
As of this writing, the Deplorable American is taking the south.
Which was predictable. The North-East is Clinton country.
Some time this evening the Trump Nation will throw a hissy.
With a bit of luck, several of them will get shot.
From BBC:
"Trump is winning in Texas, Kansas, North Dakota, South Dakota and Wyoming, according to ABC News."
Screw Texas, Kansas, North Dakota, South Dakota and Wyoming.
Let's put our toxic waste dumps there and wall the f*ckers off.
These are the ignorant slime who gave us Reagan, Bush Sr., and Bush Junior. Twenty years of misguided policies, disastrous legislation, and worsening relations with the rest of the world. The last "government" they elected drove us into a horrific war on completely false pretexts, bankrupting the country and destroying Iraq in the process.
Also un-American: Ohio, Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, Alabama, Mississipi, and Arkansas. Screw them too. And Louisiana.
And West Virginia, which is a hell hole.
7:12 PM: And Missouri.
8:33 Pm: Utah.
Here's a promise: If Clinton wins, I will gloat venomously, viciously, and irritatingly long and loud. If that bastard wins, I'm going to be a complete son-of-a-bitch to Republicans for four years, going out of my way to screw them or hurt them at any opportunity.
It nauseates me almost unbearably that so many "Americans" want an egomaniac mean-spirited, coarse-mouthed, racist, pussy-grabbing sociopath as the most powerful person in the world.
Loathsome carrot-faced dingo.
Damned Christians.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Excuse me, White Guy American.
As of this writing, the Deplorable American is taking the south.
Which was predictable. The North-East is Clinton country.
Some time this evening the Trump Nation will throw a hissy.
With a bit of luck, several of them will get shot.
From BBC:
"Trump is winning in Texas, Kansas, North Dakota, South Dakota and Wyoming, according to ABC News."
Screw Texas, Kansas, North Dakota, South Dakota and Wyoming.
Let's put our toxic waste dumps there and wall the f*ckers off.
These are the ignorant slime who gave us Reagan, Bush Sr., and Bush Junior. Twenty years of misguided policies, disastrous legislation, and worsening relations with the rest of the world. The last "government" they elected drove us into a horrific war on completely false pretexts, bankrupting the country and destroying Iraq in the process.
Also un-American: Ohio, Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, Alabama, Mississipi, and Arkansas. Screw them too. And Louisiana.
And West Virginia, which is a hell hole.
7:12 PM: And Missouri.
8:33 Pm: Utah.
Here's a promise: If Clinton wins, I will gloat venomously, viciously, and irritatingly long and loud. If that bastard wins, I'm going to be a complete son-of-a-bitch to Republicans for four years, going out of my way to screw them or hurt them at any opportunity.
It nauseates me almost unbearably that so many "Americans" want an egomaniac mean-spirited, coarse-mouthed, racist, pussy-grabbing sociopath as the most powerful person in the world.
Loathsome carrot-faced dingo.
Damned Christians.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
TAKING YOU BACK TO A KINDER GENTLER TIME ...
Yes, this is election related. Sorry. You probably want to kill a Republican or two right now, don't you? Slaughter them in their churches and send the Union Armies back into the Old South errm, Red States, to pound the damned primitives back into civilization. And who can blame you?
I likewise feel murderously inclined toward our more backward brethren, and thank the good lord we can still own guns andshoot Texans errm, exercise our second amendment rights!
Some suitable music.
WE HAVE A GENERAL
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X4vbdZUaDms.]
CIVIL WAR TUNE
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k0U9hidLkqc.]
In both Texas and North Carolina vigorous vote suppression is under way. If you wish to inflict violence on a Trumpite that's your own affair, just make sure none of the bystanders have a camera.
Make the damage permanent.
No, I still haven't seen any proof or even indication that Donald Trump's father isn't an Orangutan, or that his darling dingbat wife isn't a two-bit golddigging Balkan slut.
Me, partisan?
Damned right.
By the way, Giuliani is a rancid smear of festering crap, Priebus should be defenestrated, and Katrina Pierson needs a straightjacket.
A very tight straightjacket.
Kelly Anne Conway? A strident foul-tempered harpy from the fiery pit.
A few cans of Black Flag™ would do her right.
It's all-American.
If you don't vote for Hillary Rodham Clinton, I hope somebody sets fire to your crapper with you in it.
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NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I likewise feel murderously inclined toward our more backward brethren, and thank the good lord we can still own guns and
Some suitable music.
WE HAVE A GENERAL
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X4vbdZUaDms.]
CIVIL WAR TUNE
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k0U9hidLkqc.]
In both Texas and North Carolina vigorous vote suppression is under way. If you wish to inflict violence on a Trumpite that's your own affair, just make sure none of the bystanders have a camera.
Make the damage permanent.
No, I still haven't seen any proof or even indication that Donald Trump's father isn't an Orangutan, or that his darling dingbat wife isn't a two-bit golddigging Balkan slut.
Me, partisan?
Damned right.
By the way, Giuliani is a rancid smear of festering crap, Priebus should be defenestrated, and Katrina Pierson needs a straightjacket.
A very tight straightjacket.
Kelly Anne Conway? A strident foul-tempered harpy from the fiery pit.
A few cans of Black Flag™ would do her right.
It's all-American.
If you don't vote for Hillary Rodham Clinton, I hope somebody sets fire to your crapper with you in it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, November 07, 2016
I LIKE THE WAY YOU THINK, I THINK.
Earlier today somebody said that it was typically Dutch of me, in fact to be expected, and a good characteristic. What he meant was my ex-girlfriend, about whom I boasted that she got two degrees and put herself through college. He praised me because she was Chinese, and as a Dutchman naturally I valued such things.
Her hard work. And putting herself through college.
Such exemplary Chineseness is very Dutch.
He wasn't surprised at all.
Wow.
By the same token, I suppose that her having a bearded pipe-smoking Dutchman as an ex-boyfriend is very Chinese of her. In fact, many Chinese females appreciate the sheer Dutchness of being valued for hard work and studiousness by bearded pipe-smokers, which is a very Dutch thing.
Leastways something the Dutch excel at.
That valuing bit, to be precise.
There must be sheer oodles of Chinese American women with Dutch American ex-boyfriends. And surely that has to mean that here in the San Francisco Bay Area there are any number of Dutch American men.
Pipesmoking unattached Dutch American men.
If not presently ex, soon to be.
No wonder I never have a date for Friday night.
It's all that competition out there.
Other Dutchmen.
I am a Dutch American. She is a Chinese American.
I esteem her stubborn perseverance.
Together we are ex.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Her hard work. And putting herself through college.
Such exemplary Chineseness is very Dutch.
He wasn't surprised at all.
Wow.
By the same token, I suppose that her having a bearded pipe-smoking Dutchman as an ex-boyfriend is very Chinese of her. In fact, many Chinese females appreciate the sheer Dutchness of being valued for hard work and studiousness by bearded pipe-smokers, which is a very Dutch thing.
Leastways something the Dutch excel at.
That valuing bit, to be precise.
There must be sheer oodles of Chinese American women with Dutch American ex-boyfriends. And surely that has to mean that here in the San Francisco Bay Area there are any number of Dutch American men.
Pipesmoking unattached Dutch American men.
If not presently ex, soon to be.
No wonder I never have a date for Friday night.
It's all that competition out there.
Other Dutchmen.
I am a Dutch American. She is a Chinese American.
I esteem her stubborn perseverance.
Together we are ex.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
JUST TRYING TO HELP
Apparently I have a filthy mind. My apartment mate asked if it was true that men went bananas whenever they saw big naked breasts. Please note that she neither has large mammaries, nor was in way the subject of an event that involved the fullest of full frontal. But she had heard.
I explained that many men did not have the capacity to resist zeppelins, possibly because it reminded them of their mothers or Carol Doda, but because I live in San Francisco and I have already seen lots of large real estate, heck I've even seen Carol Doda, big boobalicious mammaries, of any and every tint and texture, have totally no effect on me.
I do not have an inner caveman to coddle.
And I could prove it. Go ahead, show me breasts of ANY size. From terror-inducing humongousness, quivering like wet concrete, to golf ball sized, whether freckled or plain. Why, make sure that there's a full spectrum, several score, of every possible hue and size.
I am up for the challenge.
She told me to fercrapsakes stop patting myself on the back.
It was far too suspicious when I did that.
Rather obscene, in fact.
Disgusting.
Honestly, random naked breasts don't do anything for me.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I explained that many men did not have the capacity to resist zeppelins, possibly because it reminded them of their mothers or Carol Doda, but because I live in San Francisco and I have already seen lots of large real estate, heck I've even seen Carol Doda, big boobalicious mammaries, of any and every tint and texture, have totally no effect on me.
I do not have an inner caveman to coddle.
And I could prove it. Go ahead, show me breasts of ANY size. From terror-inducing humongousness, quivering like wet concrete, to golf ball sized, whether freckled or plain. Why, make sure that there's a full spectrum, several score, of every possible hue and size.
I am up for the challenge.
She told me to fercrapsakes stop patting myself on the back.
It was far too suspicious when I did that.
Rather obscene, in fact.
Disgusting.
Honestly, random naked breasts don't do anything for me.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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GRITS AND TOFU
Like most Americans, I have a list of people who should be peacefully retired from public service and thereafter kept away from their desks,...
