Over at the pizza buffet

These days, it’s getting harder to wipe away the bovine scatology to get to what’s truly important. I don’t give a rat’s rear end what any celebrity says. That also includes politicians who would knock their grandma out of the way if she was between them and a television camera. I don’t care about twitter keyboard courage emboldened hissy fits. What is worse than who tweeted what are the twits making tweets into national news events. I’ve seen entire news cycles about tweet wars. Are we truly so shallow as to care about what ignorant people tweet or ignorant so-called comedians have to say – about anything? These jesters for profit work to make sure every other word of their shtick is profane. I’m guessing as children they giggled whenever someone said poopie and they never grew up.

Can’t we all just agree that Twitter is a cesspool. But it’s an obsession that even our President can’t let us get away from. The world’s problems solved or started in a designated number of characters. I couldn’t work that out of my mind while at the gym this morning. Which reminds me, I got an email from a guy named Robert. I think it was Robert. He thought my gym musings were nonsensical blather and I should retire again. Or some words to that effect. I can’t recall for certain because his email hit the trash bin faster than he could craft another literary gem. It’s like those courageous blasts of keyboard courage over the years I’ve conditioned myself to ignore. Besides, I’m a seasoned citizen now and there is no space left on the cranial hard-drive to store useless nonsense. Thanks to Bob, I think I’ll retire as soon as I can figure out how you retire from being retired. Second thought, I think Bob wished me dead.

Household 6 asked me what was on my mind. For those of you who are non-military oriented, 6 usually designates the unit commander. Just so you know who’s in charge at Pendry manor and any other military household. I told her there was nothing on my mind that could not be cured by a trip over to the pizza buffet. So, waist line be damned, off we went.

HH6 got herself a diet soda and I got unsweetened ice tea. Yes, I do know that in this part of America unsweet tea is Southern Sacrilege, but I needed a counterweight to the pizza calories. So, there I was minding my own business with a plateful of pizza slices and another of breadsticks and marinara sauce when HH6 arrived back at the table. “Where is your salad? You have to eat some salad.” Many of you youngsters will not recall the Dobie Gillis beatnik sidekick Maynard G. Krebs. Maynard would get look of shock on his face whenever someone mentioned work.  I imagine that’s about how I looked when HH6 told me I needed to eat some salad. Head down, I dutifully shuffled off toward the salad bar mumbling,” this ain’t the doggoned salad buffet.” I looked up just in time to avoid what would have been an epic collision with a couple of large humans carrying pizza stacked up on those tiny plates, cinnamon breadsticks and a chocolate chip cookie big as a frisbee. They had no salad. I forced myself to take a little salad out of the bin. Then covered it completely with bacon bits, cheese, much ranch dressing and headed back to the table. When I got back, HH6 looked at my salad and then gave me the look. I plucked an olive from the beautiful salad she was working on, dropped it into the ranch dressing, batted my big brown eyes and she crumbled. I still got it.

Off to work on something serious, maybe. Speaking of keyboard courage, I need to give John reason to send me another email with his condolences to my parents for raising an idiot. Right back atcha Johnnie boy.

© 2018 J. D. Pendry J. D. Pendry’s American Journal

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