Friday, February 08, 2008
Everybody knows a 90-year-old smoker: Smoke Nazis, your days are numbered.
The ice age currently upon us is breeding a slow, simmering resentment out this way.
One has gloomy thoughts of resentment, against one's former spouse, one' long-lost mistress, one's dog.
Poor Gulliver, once our family dog, scapegoat for the family, slightly depressed, because somehow all the dreck and drudge of our nutty tribe seemed somehow to fall on him. "Gulliver! You shat on the rug again!"
Gulliver had done no such thing.
He would give the accuser that "F*ck- off and leave me alone" look.
"And take that Shell Vapona flea collar off me. It's driving me to neuroticism. It was designed to kill Japanese, and now it's killing me."
Wonky family. Wonky dog.
I would take Gulliver for a walk. "Gulliver!" I would yell when he'd get off his leash.
A woman walking her dog in the same park, piped up and said, "' Gulliver'. What a stupid name for a dog."
"Well, yeah, how about your dog then?"
She curbed her little boxer.
"Come along, Batman."
There is going to be snow in Ontario and uppper New York State for the next seven days.
I am out of liquor and eyeing the Listerine, which gives you wonderful breath, but leaves you tighter than a tick.
I am smoking Reservation cigarettes of almost- nothing a carton-- and I swear there is a plot to "off" all us ofays through crummy cigarettes, probably made from table scrapings and dry weeds in China.
That's because to buy a pack of cigarettes legally today is to take out a mortgage.
I am so tired of those do-gooders, financed by my tax dollars and Pfizer to tell us all to butt out.
I wish they would get a job and stop using my tax dollars as their petty tyranny over poor hapless users of a legal product you can't use anywhere! This is not only a meal ticket for the prohibitionists, it is starting to get past the end of my nose. Says John Stuart Mill: "Do what you want. Make a fist if you want to, but don't get it past the end of my nose."
They are, fat bastards on my tax money, and Pfizer's getting past the end of my nose.
And all the weasel journalists go right along with this fascism.
Hitler was a a livid anti-smoker.
After his suicide, they found his skull was a bright yellow from all that shitty microbiotic food he was eating.
Appparently, his farts were so vile that he could easily clear out a room full of Officier Kommand, Wermacht.
Maps and charts flying. People climbing the walls. Himmel! Scheissegemacht!
Bad beer and crummy cigarettes.
Some say I might be spoiled sitting here in my Seniors' palace, making vitriolic pronouncements.
Well let me tell ya somethin'.
I have given up the food bank and have resorted to dumpster diving, competing with Bushy the Bum for empty beerbotles fer to finance my beer. It is small wonder, that in America at last, the Bush administration has gotten together with the Democrats to finally offer each one of us badly used pensioners a $400 boost, just once, and I wish our own Conservatives would do something sane like that for a change. Nah. They want to buy more tanks.
They won't buy the helicopters our military needs. They buy tanks from Germany.
You know what happened with the last Panzer Division.
You know at last that the Germans have all kinds of money to pay off our stupid politicians and set up a regime of Habsburgs. Canada is only now beginning to realize. Dumpkopf Kanadieschen. Stunned bastards given a country by the Brits and now not knowing what to do with it and its riches. Sell to the U.S. Sell to Germany. "Don't you know Canada is for sale?"
A father's beautiful gift smashed by a stupid child.
We are going to have another election here.
"Beware," says the sage, when politicians get too flashy, too full of pizzaz.
Well, Liberal leader Stephane Dion is the farthest thing from flashy.
On the face of it, dumb as a doorknob.
Hail Stephane Dion! I say
He really is the kind of leader we need now.
Dipstick. But he might have a plan.
Surely can do no harm. Maybe get us out of Afghanistan.
You will do no harm.
As in the rock song,
Politics ain't workin'
I ain't workin'.
I tried to get a job as a pizza delivery man, they looked at my wizened face and said, "We need a young guy.,"
I told the owner I may be long in the tooth, but he seems to have this sweet tooth for young guys.
"And what are you doing swatting flies with the dishrag?"
And yet and yet. There is a hint of spring in the air.
I looked out at my lilacs-- and holy sprig! There are buds on the branches. Buds! Right in the middle of the ice pack.
Just a taste of the new season.
And in spite of the bitter exhaustions and rheumations of an old man,
This bud's for you.
And light up and relax.