SMELLS LIKE PENANG

It is currently low eighties Fahrenheit in Georgetown (Penang, Malaysia). And it might rain there today. This comes up for three reasons: I have friends who live in that part of the world;
I remembered my ex's reaction to durian years ago; and Latakia pipe tobacco blends smell remarkably like barbecue and tire fires according to some people.

It is mid-fifties in SF right now, where I live. Nothing in this apartment resembles durian.
And nowadays I hardly ever smoke Latakia blends.

So everything other than the temperature is oojah-cum-spiff.

Well, except for the fact that I mentioned tofu cheeseburgers on a rabbi's Facebook post about differences between d'rabbanan and d'oraisa, and now the entire conversation is about tofu. Sorry man, I'll know better next time. Perhaps I'll throw some durian into the comment string instead. D'rabbanan, d'oraisa, and is something that smells like sewage from a Limburger cheese factory even kosher, let alone edible? The pilpul will be immense.

Several years ago I brought some durian into the apartment. My ex reacted by barricading herself in the kitchen, yelling that she wasn't coming out until that stuff was gone, and she would be complaining to my aunt and uncle (my nearest relatives) that I engaged in alien autopsies, and was a horrid degenerate and completely irredeemable.

I am not in a position to deny any of those assertions.

Durian is native to the part of the world where Penang is.
As are tire fires, and some darn good barbecue.

Years ago cheeseburgers of any type were not available in Penang.
Lots of other good stuff to eat was.
No pipe tobaco.

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IT'S A DIFFERENT WORLD

Over in an internet group where philosophical gentlemen and the rare philosophical gentle damsel meet and discuss pipes and tobacco, someone started a conversation about the worst tobacco they had ever smoked. Naturally, in such an obsessive group, there were opinions. There frequently are. Often wrong and strong. We're alternatively inclined.

Nearly two hundred opinionated comments.

Erinmore Flake was the first tobacco mentioned as throughly repulsive. Now, I like Erinmore Flake. I first tried it in my teens, threw up twice, and swore never to touch the stuff again. Despite the beautiful and appealing canary yellow tins with the red trademark, very tempting, and instantly familiar to anyone who has thrown up twice because of the contents.

A few years ago I tried it again. I'm rather fond of it, intellectually, and if you smoke slow on the cusp of going out, it is pleasant, enjoyable even. A decent mostly Virginia product. The bizarre top dressing fades within moments of lighting up, and it renders down to a fine ash.

Two ancient and doddering gentlemen in Marin used to smoke it. They are dead now, and the tobacco was probably not responsible for that, as they were both seriously getting on in years, having been born well before the Second World War. It is conceivable that their "tastes" contributed to their long lives.

St. Bruno Flake and MacBaren Vanilla were also mentioned, and cursed as vile, along with the entire Borkum Riff and Captain Black oeuvres (stellarly popular among bikers, deviants, and blue collar criminals, indicative of bestial tendencies and unmentionable ailments), as well as Half & Half (equal parts Virginia and Burley, and displeasing to both sides of that equation). Plus something notoriously trashy flavoured with cherries, and the horrid "tobacco" that Hugh Heffner and Frank Sinatra favoured: Mixture 79.

I've tried Mixture 79. It is loathsome. Whatever miniscule shred of semi-respect I ever may have felt for those two repulsive specimens of humanity (Heffner and Sinatra) promptly went so far out the door and with such violent force that I cannot bear to even hear them mentioned in the same breath as Neo-Nazis, Attila the Hun, Donald Trump, the Proud Boys, the Bharata Janata Party, or lawyer-Bob-the-raving-gun-nut of the East Bay group
I have a container of it that is over two decades old.
Under my bed, very tightly sealed.
It's extremely nasty.
Faugh.


Inevitably, blends with Latakia were mentioned.


"Alicia, first rule in this group: Thou shalt not butt in and get there first when John O. is, once-a-bloody-gain, preparing a treatise against Lakakia."
-------Martin F.


"Roses are red, violets are blue,
965 tastes ... just like poo."
-------John O.


Bombs went off for another hundred-plus comments.
A savage fray, with many casualties.
Blood and gore everywhere.
Quite lovely.

Now, to any non-smokers who may have gotten this far into this essay, I should point out that some of the most splendid and fondly remembered tobacco mixtures ever made prominently featured Latakia. I myself smoked Latakia blends for years, with great enjoyment, and never minded the helpful souls who lovingly advised me that I would have far more friends, and might even have a social life with real humans to talk to, if I stopped huffing that stuff! Despite your horrible body odour, sharp claws, and glowing red eyes. Good lord, man, your thick pelt that proves you are actually a werewolf!

It's a rather lovely tobacco. I still love the smell when someone else is smoking it. Even though nowadays I almost exclusively load Virginia & Perique mixtures into my pipes.
I find them subtle and extremely satisfying.


The discussion is barely a day old. It's probably just getting started, should go on all week.
I think we're all enjoying it. Venomously, and with vituperation.
Evil juices are flowing.


By the way, the tin of Erinmore I opened a while back is within arms reach.
It smells fecundly rich, still has a hint of pineapples.
There are several pipes nearby.

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I'M IN TOUCH WITH MY INNER MEANIE

Yesterday everybody's favourite cretinous bootlicker Rudy Giulinani held a press conference in a parking lot between a dildo store and a crematorium. Which is an apt metaphor for him and his master's life right now, except that only Jared and Stephen Miller will visit him in prison. And maybe Steve Bannon who is desperate for a new lawyer with less principles than his old one.
That, too, is a metaphor.

Anyone who thought that American rightwing politics couldn't get any more seedy than a vicious snapping turtle and a weepy poodle in the senate falling over themselves to obey their bloated Adderall addicted master's every yap wasn't paying attention.

Boys, we are the country that invented crazy as a political platform. We've got Louie "chumbucket brains" Gomert as the living fossil proving that.
Plus evangelicals.


And if you're expecting me to be a gentleman and speak kind words about the other side, you will be disappointed, because I've had to put up with Trumpians at work for over four years.
My turn now, I'm going to be a bitch.
Metaphorically.



Good thing I no longer associate with the East Bay crowd; I'd gleefully tell Bob, Masha, Robin, and Jack (I think it's Jack) to shove it. With helpful diagrams.
Plus the "insect". The "herb" already died.
Also physically.


Please buy a plot, y'all, I need somewhere to dance.


It's a metaphor. Honest.



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IT DEPENDS

Of course I'm happy that the election has been called. In one sense, it's the end of a nightmare. Although I conced that for some people, it may seem like the beginning. Good.

Don Jr. is probably now soiling himself daily.
Poor. Bastard.


Let us NOT build bridges.
It only encourages them.


The most interesting and grimly entertaining event is still to come, though. A concession speech like no other. I'm quite looking forward to that. It's going to be popcorntastic.


Somewhere an orange-faced Adderal addict is weeping into his spent incontinence diaper. Sad. Sad.




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BREAKING ICE IS HARD

Yesterday evening, while trying to get her new computer connected to the internet and also describing a coworker who is too stupid to wear a face mask while in the office during this pandemic, the apartment mate stated as a blunt fact that I am more Aspergery than she is.
Well, butter my face and call me biscuit. She is the woman who finds it difficult to deal with people and is painfully antisocial. Whereas I am a ray of sunshine and so darn social that innocent people cannot resist my web of blandishments.


Eh, I think it's neck and neck.


I'm not good at ice-breaking. And if it weren't for Facebook and Caffeine, interacting with other people would fall by the wayside, and I'd just stand back and observe. For a while this blog was a significant part of my social life, as were the calls I made everyday, business to business, credit and collections.


"Hi, this is Darby MacDingus from Crappity-Crap Corporation, can I speak to John, please?"


And if I connected to John, I'd let him tell me about his recent vacation, his sister in Vermont, plus the Bubbly Blitzpah sisters and their monkey act, before we'd finally talk about the past-due invoice. Which he'd then promise to pay in two weeks, here's the cheque number, and thank you for your patience. Several months later I'd call him about another bill, and we'd continue the conversation where we'd left off.

Some of those conversations had installments for several years.


There was also the visiting rabbi from Long Beach who ended up calling my work number. Once I clarified that I wasn't Jewish, we talked for forty five minutes, and resumed conversing at a convenient venue near the office after I finished for the day. It helps that I have an odd memory, and often retain stuff that is of no interest to many other people.

I've noticed a very similar pattern with my apartment mate. So much so that I take staggering flashes of brilliance from her entirely for granted. As well as retention of data that really nobody remembers. Why she even knew the number of bones in the human foot when I was telling her about Little White Nipple Dude's claim that he was a podiatrist and that there were over two hundred bones there is ... peculiar.

There are 26 bones in the foot. These include cuboids, cuneiforms, naviculars, phalanges, tarsals and metatarsals.

She finds feet rather repulsive, by the way.

A sound foot is a thing of beauty.

I'm just saying.

26.



All of this came up because both of us dealt with a tech-support person who had that chipper positive chirpy everything gonna be all right tone that drives us up the wall.
I vastly prefer the several people I've recently dealt with telephonically at my insurance provider and the hospital where my primary care physician is officed. Not coincidentally, all of them are of Chinese Ancestry. Stressed, frustrated, rushed, well yes. But completely competent, efficient, and knowledgable. Very capable people who are not graduates of the chirping positivity school of communicating. Real folks, with nuts and bolts, and warm sparking wires.

That analogy could be further developed, but it would still be slightly berserk.

Life is not all happy chirping perky techno-muppet.

Some of us are frog like.




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THE HOWLING OF DINGOES

The world is still surreal. And the news is substantially the same this morning as it was last night. We have no president. There are no adults in the room (yet).

Today is a work day, so the first indication of a resolution will be when the fat Irishman on the porch starts swearing (more likely) or has an orgasm of Trumpian joy and exultation (less likely).

Most of the time a dull and monotonous mumbling, droning, will be the only indication that he's out there, uncomfortably festering in his seat.


This should be an interesting day.



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A MIGHTY TUMULT

In an insane rant, much like a spoiled brat, the esteemed president of the United States listed all the people conspiring against him retaining his shiny ball this afternoon. Pollsters, ballot-counters, Democrats, and rational people. In cities where there are a lot of people of colour. Kudos to everyone who paid attention to the bitter hissy end.

There was a promise of litigation and numerous court cases.
Any day now he'll start firing people.

There is only so much one can expect Adderal to achieve.
Our esteemed president is losing it.
Big time.

Prez-bama gonna come and get your guns, whitepeepos!

Postal voting is just more vulnerable to Democratic votes.

It's as good a concession speech as we're going to get.



In other news, daemonic spirits have possessed Wisconsin and Michigan. The usual reliable Republican Sources speak of "high level daemonic networks", and strike and strike and strike and strike and strike! Victory, victory, victory! Thus sayeth Florida woman!


Unlike Trump, I got a lot accomplished this week. Paid all my bills and instalments, washed clothes, and did my shopping. Plus I voted. I even read what I was voting for! Yay me!

Also unlike our esteemed president, I didn't use crayons.

Heading outside soon, to smoke a bit before the apartment mate comes home. She's been in a right mood all week, which is understandable, and that requires mental fortification: Doblone D'Oro in a Peterson 53.

Oh, and strong tea. For me, not for her.
Don't want her anymore wound up.
Calm down, angry person!

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PAULA WHITE

Courtesy of a friend, I have seen a video of evangelical pastor Paula White speaking furiously in tongues while praying for Donald Trump's victory. Well goldarn, you Christians are buggery insane. Out of your everloving minds. Yeah, honestly, I did not know how bad it was.
Y'all irredeemably bat shit.

None of my best friends are Christian. Even though a few generations ago the family tree was sodden with religious folk, seeing as on both sides they were seriously constipated Calvinists, and disapproved of nearly everything that all of you heathens and idolators were doing.

The last few times I've been in a house of worship, it was a synagogue. People are normal there. And an overwhelming number are rational too.


If Paula White is typical of American Christians, like Archbishop of Cetinje, Metropolitan of Montenegro and the Littoral, of Zeta, Brda, and Skenderija, Exarch of the Holy Throne of Peć Amfilohije Radović is of Eastern European Christians, then I want absolutely one hundred percent nothing to do with them.


Jews, Sufi Muslims, and Sikhs, okay.
Skeptics and atheists too.


Oh, and also no Caucasian converts to Buddhism. They're usually far too Protestant and Puritanical to be even half-way tolerable.



Holy cow, batman.



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UNHINGED CONSPIRACY THEORISTS

Numerous examples nation-wide demonstrate that there isn't enough valium in the drinking water. It's a major problem. Fluoride levels are holding, however, as are micro chips.
With nearly fifty percent having voted for the cretin, this blogger has lost his faith in the goodness of the American people, a diverse group that more or less can be said to represent all (or most) of humanity. Well, actually, I had absolutely no damned faith in them to begin with, for which I was, for many years, labelled a cynic and too darn European (I have no faith in Europeans either, for what it's worth).

What I do have faith in is a good pipe, some solid tobacco, and the tides. Presently smoking Greg Pease's Stonehenge Flake in a Peterson. And contemplating man's inanity to man.


Examples:

A paranoid yoga instructor boasts about going unmasked while attending a convention of like-minded people in Greenville, South Carolina ("Flatober Fest"). And claims that Covid only infects artificial people, who pay taxes and have drivers' licenses.

Elsewhere, a beer fan disrupts a press conference with drunken screams about the Biden crime family.

Random accusation from the internet: the Democrats want to win power by making Joe Biden president.


None of this happened in San Francisco. And people still accuse us of being out of touch with reality. Heck, we're normal. Sane, balanced, rational. The rest of you are off your nut, and far too often racists, bigots, and crypto-fascists to boot.

Please stay where you are, and forcrapssake don't ever come here. Don't even visit. You do not need to leave your heart in San Francisco. The streets are cleaner than they've been in years now, many of the nuts have gone home, and we like it like this.

Stonehenge is a damned fine product. I'm going through this tin at a rapid clip, and probably swilling too much coffee and tea. Feeling more optimistic about the future than at the beginning of the lockdown, despite so many joggers on the public street and Republicans in Marin not wearing masks. Life is good. And nobody has bellyached about my smoking in weeks.
Just goes to show the benefit of being cut-off from the rest of the country.
Where armed Republicans threaten Election boards.
And Christians adulate adulterers.

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BRIDGES? BRIDGES? WE DON'T NEED NO STINKING BRIDGES!

A very dear friend wrote this afternoon "I feel like regardless of the final count, our citizens have made a clear statement that the United States of America is a nation of haters, bigots, money-grabbers and Science deniers. They have also said that the beliefs of our Founding Fathers were error-filled and our Constitution is nothing but a sheet of scrap paper."

He also wrote: "Looking at the numbers now, I believe that Biden will win both the popular vote and the Electoral vote. The popular vote margin will be more dramatic than the Electoral. Now we're in for a long time of whining, lawsuits, denials, accusations, and refusals. Between now and January, our America will suffer. Biden must be a healer and a bridge crosser."

That second paragraph shows him to be a humanist and a realist.
Precisely the characteristics that make him a friend.


I myself am a far lesser man. I'm feeling very Dutch Calvinist (my ancestral religion and culture) right now, and consequently very intolerant of "them". I just want to blow 'em out of the water and despoil their coastline.

Torch their cities, burn their granaries and ale houses, and slaughter them just like the Spanish did to Naarden. Leave nothing but starving widows and orphans in the barren fields.

My ideas are less likely to become action.

Which is unfortunate.




You do realize that from a religious point of view, all "those" people are heretics, idolaters, and practioners of witchcraft, who should be killed, right? Expunged, precisely like the Midianites.




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THE LONG JOURNEY

A good way to calm down when you're on pins and needles because apparently counting is difficult is to load a pipe, light up, and find something else to read. And imagining how much discomfitted the people you despise are at this time.
I recommend it for everyone.

Well, not strictly speaking everyone. There are some people (very many people) whom I wish a horrible day, filled with acid indigestion, a hacking cough that brings up their bowels, and a screaming head-ache, followed by dis-invites to Thanksgiving and the feasting near the solstice. As well as the plague, alcoholism, and panic attacks.

Sherlock Holmes series Rathbone pipe by Peterson. Solani 633 Virginia Flake with Perique. It is relatively quiet outside, much like late yesterday evening, when the neighborhood seemed to be holding its breath. Sunlight against the window shades.


I am cognizant of the fact that I can be mean-spirited and vindictive.
These are virtues, with which I'm quite comfortable.

The pipe which I'm currently smoking has a nice deep bowl, and should last slightly over an hour, during which I'll be in an almost zen-like trance, while reading Headhunting In The solomon Islands by Caroline Mytinger (1942), of which I have two hardback copies.
Skin infections, mosquitoes, oppressive heat, and afflictions of the dermis.

Sheer heaven.

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THE SCUM BUCKET STATES

For future reference.

Alabama
Alaska
Arkansas
Florida
Georgia
Idaho
Indiana
Iowa
Kansas
Kentucky
Louisiana
Mississippi
Missouri
Montana
Nebraska
North Carolina
North Dakota
Ohio
Oklahoma
South Dakota
Tennessee
Texas
Utah
West Virginia
Wyoming

If your state is part of Trumpistan and you can't find it on this list, it's because the list is in alphabetical order. Go back and read it again. Slowly.

Aloud.



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LIGHTING A MATCH ...

It's election day, which in the third world -- Florida, Kentucky, Georgia, South Carolina, and Philadelphia -- means that the chance of violence, discord, and mayhem, is incredibly high.
Also here in Northern California and Oregon, because of our solidarity with poor repressed malnourished third worlders, and our hatred for the Orange Cheeto.
Plus Lindsey Graham and Mitch McConnell.
Loathsome dickwads.


A CHRONOLOGY


MID MORNING, AROUND 10:30 AM:
Posted on a pipe board: In approximately half an hour I shall leave the house with my ballot, some bank documents to attend to at East West Bank (which is closing early today because of the chance of rowdiness), two pipes (one already in my mouth when the door shuts), tobacco, a shopping list, and a truly HORRIBLE attitude. Oh, and my stoutest walking stick.
For social distancing and possible mayhem.


MID AFTERNOON, AFTER 2:00 PM:
Succesfully voted and did my banking. The number of plate glass windows in the Financial District that are boarded up in case bad actors come to town is staggering.
There was no rioting at that time.

Did my shopping in Chinatown. Cheung fan and some potstickers for my downstairs neighbor, plus a strip of cured meat. The other potstickers and cured meat were for me. Throat lozenges, weird candy, and diverse vegetables. Plus both black and red dried dates.

What I lit up in front of the apartment building and finished down near the Embarcadero Center was an item older than myself filled with Astleys' No. 109 Medium Flake.

Lunch was all-American. Potstickers, bacon, yau choi, and cheesy bread. With Sriracha hot sauce. Then some strong coffee to calm my nerves.


TEA TIME, AROUND FOUR:
Popped open a tin of Greg Pease's Stonehenge Flake. It was puffy and bloated from age, just like our esteemed president the Orange Cheeto. But not as cheesy by far, not odious at all.
And it would have made a far better chief executive these past four years.

Checked my messages. One recorded sales call in Mandarin, one robocall telling me to stay home and out of trouble today. Erased both; simply living in a country with so many fans of cheetos is plenty trouble anyhow.

The cured meat (臘肉 'laap yiuk') will be held in reserve. It will be great steamed with rice, some fresh vegetables on the side. The place where I got the cheung fan and potstickers now also does their own meat-curing. I am looking forward to enjoying it.

The flake will be loaded up after I've finished my tea.

Upon consideration, the cured meat would ALSO have made a better chief executive.

More intelligent, better looking, and more loved.


Whatever happens, I need to buy more Stonehenge Flake. Enough to last me through the next cycle of violence and right wing bullshit. I'll count on my fellow Americans locally to keep me fully supplied with Chinese style cured meat.

Stay smoky, my friends.

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WARM COMFORT

Rice, fatty meat, and plum flower vegetable. With hot sauce. It's suitable for any meal. So it boggles the mind that some people -- my apartment mate, for instance -- insist on eating a bowl of cereal for breakfast. Gluey, but with a repulsive texture. Thin lumps.
American cereal is particularly appalling.

Now, I understand that eating muck can be very satisfying. Which explains the long line of cars for the drive-up window at McDonalds. Nothing says "happy suburban breakfast joy joy" like deep-fried starchy compounds in the morning. Which is why so many people in Marin have both weight and trust issues.

For me, the typical breakfast consists of five prescribed medications, a cup of coffee, and heading out with a pipe in my mouth to get the juices flowing. I understand that physicians disrecommend this, because the all-American grease feast is the most important meal of the day. It gets you ready to head out to the back forty to bale hay, castrate the bulls, harvest the candy corn, and Christian saint-like deliver carrots to those old folks homes and grammar schools so people can see in the dark. Which is crucial.

In all honesty, I do not understand my fellow Americans. It is hard to grasp how a bunch of overweight alcoholics won the war. Maybe they were thin and sober after the great depression. Longer bones and more leverage probably also had a lot to do with it.
Oh, and bad fried crap breath.


Segue into anger about dumbassity. The dominant theme for today.


Texas in particular. They have such great proximity to delicious stuff to eat, what with Mexico being right next door. One wonders what on earth is wrong with those people.
Probably just rank stupidity and body odour.


Morbidly obese from the neck up.





As you can tell, I am gearing up to be pissed this evening, when the Republicans pull some repressive chicanery and roll-back progress, as they are bound to do, with the ardent support of people related to child molesters and mass murderers. That being half the country at this point, though mostly in the Deep South and the Lone Star State.

And don't get me started on the Midwest.
Or Florida, good dog almighty.





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THE COMFORT ZONES

This morning, when I finally headed into the teevee room to enjoy a cup of coffee and read disturbing news items, I discovered that I was not alone. A presence was there.
One which no man should see. Haunting, and belicose.

The turkey vulture wearing MY bathrobe, sitting in MY rattan chair, holding MY wallet.

This bird (Sydney Fylbert) has NO sense of personal boundaries. Neither do any of the other small rambunctious fuzzballs, but he is the one "roomie" who in the past few months has pushed envelopes most often.


You will note, however, that a beak is not capable of clenching a pipe. So even if he was interested in the tray of smoking equipment not visible in this picture, he'd have no way of choosing a briar to light up and puff. My apartment mate is a non-smoker, and most of the beasts have no interest in pipes, tobacco, or the occasional pack of fags. If I ever end up dating someone, she and I will have to step outside frequently to enjoy our vices. When we return, the turkey vulture will have taken up 'ownership' of whatever we incautiously left lying about.
We'll learn to deal with it as best we can, as it happens, at that time.
It's still a hypothetical bridge to future, however.


I mention this because I am not averse to the concept of interpersonal relationships. Many people rewardingly have those, and there is evidence that they can be satisfactory.

Some pipe smokers have, since becoming involved with other actual humans, developed an affection for deserted wastelands, or discovered that a garage is a comfortable place to spend several hours. Just you, a heating element, a table, a carburator, and your pipe. One of my friends spends a lot of time outdoors with his cat at the end of the garden, where the local coyote looks hungrily at the feline. Another one left his winery and moved to Beiing.
There are coping mechanisms.

Yet another lives in New England, and teaches young people how to render schmaltz, gut fish, and skin and butcher Bambi. These are all good things.
A turkey vulture would apporve.

My apartment mate is at work, I'm enjoying a smoke in front of the computer with another cup of coffee, the turkey vulture is in her chair trying to break into her computer (still wearing my bathrobe), and the place will have aired out long before the other human returns.
All is well with the world.

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PUMPKIN SPICE ELF

Just hazarding a guess here, but if you let your friends undress you and paint you orange, you may have let the pandemic affect your mind. Are you Trump? Are you a pumpkin? A fratboy?
As a celebration of Hallowe'en, it prompts questions in the minds of observers. There was no nudity on Polk Street late Saturday night as far as I could see. I encountered the naked orange man on Sunday morning while heading over to the bus stop for work.
I decided not to ask him how his fruit-hue came about.
Seeing as he looked a little out of it.
Not quite all there.

In the cold of an Autumn morning, the dermis shrivels. It reminds one that one's own body is not happy without sufficient shielding. Like the circulation might shut off or something.
Bright orange is the new blue.

Profound sympathy for the naked person. It is heartbreaking. No, you cannot have my jacket, and please stay the hell away. I do not know where you have been.
How lonely, how utterly sad.

Freak.

The season for pumkin spice everything is almost past. Alas, there are no "Twelve Days of Hallowe'en", there is no operative chol hamoed, and it isn't two days outside the land. It's just one day. One short sad day, with too much sugar and the inevitable crash that follows.

Pumpkin spice pizza did not catch on. Neither did the seasonal beer with that flavour.

Pumpkin spice: better with sardines.


Remarkably, pumpkin spice pipe tobacco IS a thing. One local store is still trying to sell through the ten pounds of it they acquired eight years ago. Year round. It gets darker, stickier, and more foetid, with each passing season. It is a horribly depressing substance.

It is suitable ONLY for LOTR fans who also drink Starbucks.
I am blessed; I only know a few of such people.
They radiate bad karma.



Old pumpkins, as everybody knows, attract the ghosts of fruitflies.
Pumpkin cookies taste like a local sportsteam.
They constrict the gut.



Naked men should not be fiery orange. Even if they are Dutch soccer fans. Pasty white with splotches is more appropriate. Or verging on mahagony, if they're from Amsterdam.
Off to beat the living Jayzus out of Feijenoord supporters.




The ancient Scots painted their bottoms blue with pumpkin.
It made them stand out better in the heather.
Blue Bottoms Over The Border.
Bog pipes.





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LET LOOSE THE MUTANT CROCS WITH MICROCHIPS!

While I was at work, a caravan of Trump supporters drove by in their pick-ups, festooned with stupid flags. And I wished, at that moment, that I owned a shoulder missile launcher, so I could send 'em back to Texas. It's their spiritual motherland. Limp-dicked small-brained weenies.

Other than that, it was a lovely day.

There's only two more such lovely days until spiritual Texans embedded in other states start an insurrection and need to be slaughtered. That being Boogaloos, Klansmen, Proud Boys, rogue police department elements, old fashioned Christian racists and fundamentalists, Q-Anonites, Branch Davidans, assorted small-balled dumbasses, and anti-vaxxers.
It's going to get awfully crowded in the Upper Peninsula.
As their wedge of "free Amurka" shrinks.
And diseases run rampant.

The problem with most survival shelter food is it gives you gas. The starving remnants will be fighting each other over cans of beans, as Fall turns to freezing Winter and they develop pneumonia because they cannot stay inside.

In despair, some of them will blow their brains out.
That will require really good aim.




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TEMPTING THE FATES

A person whom I shall not name wrote recently: "This is an embarrassing post for me. Samarra is classified as an "English" blend, contains the Satanic Cyprian Latakia, and I like it. I only admit to this because it's Friday and anyone who ever quotes me on this will suffer. A lot."
End quote.

There's Samarra in that there briar

Well okay.

Ahem... what he said, and I quote, was: "Samarra is classified as an "English" blend, contains the Satanic Cyprian Latakia, and I like it."

Let us not forget that.


"Samarra contains Latakia, and I like it."


Did everyone in the back hear that? He said "Samarra is classified as an "English" blend, contains the Satanic Cyprian Latakia, and I like it."


We all have a few shameful vices.
Things we dare not mention.
Pineapple on pizza.
Heh heh heh.



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NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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