I know I sounded real harsh.

But while I got you in the mood

Please don’t get me wrong.

I loved the clove oil. The threonate. The extra roll of paper towels. And the folding currency too.

Those things Help me Live.

The rest, not so much. That’s all I’m trying to convey.

The rest, like:

You don’t want to … (do that, be like that, go there [this last in particular forming part of a threat])

You not gonna wanna … (go back to SandRock and fix up your house to get it ready to sell).

I mean, maybe not, but …

Don’t ever tell me what I (really and truly and actually) want, okay?

That’s the one subject on which I will always be more right than you. Sorry. I’m inside this head, and my wishes are my baby kittens, and you don’t feed them, love them, or even know them, unless I tell you about them, only to be told I’m f’ing wrong about them …

Simmer down there, Liony. Breathe.

***

On the radio, some effete boy, frontman for something called The New Pornographers, was talking about heading back to Canada, because “you just can’t afford to grow old in America anymore”.

Hey there twinkie.

I know what you’re saying and even empathize to a degree, but you’re not very smart.

What you really mean is that you don’t think you can hack getting old in America without your designer gelato and your pretty steampunk loafers. You don’t think you’re capable of going on living without living your cosseted twinkie life and being able to jet off to the south of France whenever you feel bad about yourself.

Well … maybe you’re not.

But I am.

So put that in your teakwood hash pipe and suck on it, darling, and welcome to the Empire’s ugly NFL.

***

If you’re inclined to listen instead to the opinings of, yes I’ll say it, a real man who isn’t on the NPR, might I suggest those of

the late great Michael Parenti

?