A story of spit and balls.

I am back. I had a moment and figured that I would do my thing here. The Outlaws were over on Friday. They were gone before seven. Dinner was done, before dessert, and my father in law was ready to go. It is always the same story. "Let's go. I want to go." "But, we haven't had dessert yet."(as spoken by the Wife). "I don't want any dessert." "Maybe, mom does." "She doesn't want any." "How do you know?" "We have to go. It is getting dark." (unless it is already dark, in which case he may leave that out. Then again, I do not think it really matters.)

Then, my mother in law relents and away they go. Again, if it were me, I would have kicked him in the balls by now. I actually would have smothered him in his sleep, just for some peace. He is so damn dependent. It is like a two year old. He reasons, that is a lie, he has lost any capacity to reason, assuming that he had some in the first place of which I am not sure, like a two year old. I guess reasoning is a higher level memory function. Since nothing makes its way from short term memory into long term memory, he cannot anticipate the future in the near term and cannot figure out cause and effect relationships. Sadly, unlike a two year old, he will not grow out of that phase. It only gets worse.

I saw something that I never saw before. I was at Mayfair. I was in the steam and watched as some old dude moved my stuff to sit his sweaty ass down. Looking at the hair line, he could not have been born in North America. He did have a big pair of old Eastern European man balls. What is with the talk of "balls" today? Anyway, I grumbled and that passed.

I was getting dressed and saw him again. Here is what I have never seen before. I see him putting on a pair of Slazenger or Puma sweat/rain type pants. I look down and see he is wearing those black sport type nylon shell pants with black socks and black dress shoes. What the fuck is with that look? Must be an Eastern European thing. Then I am putting on my boots and I hear the sound of somebody (the old Eastern European dude with his big Eastern European dude old man balls) spitting. Then, I hear the sound of something rubbing against nylon. You know that "whooshing" sound. I could only surmise that he had something on his pants and wiped them off by spitting in his hands and rubbing out the "stain".

If he had just asked me, I am sure I would have obliged him by spitting on his pants. I could huck up a good, thick loogy for him to clean his fucking nylon pants. Nylon pants that he is wearing with fucking dress shoes. Dude, you come to a country, please learn how to dress. Oh and by the way, in North America we do not clean our pants with spit. It is like how your mother used to clean dirt off your face as a child, by licking a kleenex and rubbing the dirt away. Thanks ma, why not just spit on my face and wipe it off? It really is not less degrading.

Well that is all for today. Ciao!