All things fowl
hate really dislike the end of November. Ostensibly because of Black Friday. Which might seem weird to some people because I’m a hardcore capitalist. Therein however lies the misconception. Capitalism is not consumerism. Capitalism is the freedom for one person to exchange goods and services with another person if they should desire to do so, free from outside influence. If a mutually agreeable arrangement can be agreed upon generally both parties benefit.
Nowhere does it mention you have to buy a metric fuck tonne of crap on a gimmicky marketing contrivance. That’s on you.
That’s not to say I don’t have a grudging respect for the concept of Black Friday. From a consumer psychology perspective it is a pièce de résistance . Truly brilliantly evil.
It’s more the marketing and rabid frenzy of the herd that really gets to me and boils my misanthropy until all I have left is the treacle of unrefined hate…
Speaking of which….
…I’m having breakfast at my local. The guy next to me just ordered marmalade and white bread toast with the crusts cut off. I put down my iPad for moment to glare at him. I’m sure this is the perfect metaphor for what’s wrong with the modern world. He doesn’t notice me because he’s deep into his Tinder profile. If only the girls could see you now. Or boys I suppose. Let me not be judgmental. I mean more judgmental than I already am. I soothe myself by slurping the foam off my second latte.
I’m avoiding rush hour. Both the progeny’s are sick and have passed on their pestilence to me. Fucken Barack. Not Obama. I should probably mention. My three year old has a Barack in her class. He’s Kenyan. Which I offer up as some sort of excuse as to why he is named thus. In any event, he’s the immune compromised ground zero for all things plague like. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without snot (of a greenish tincture) streaming down his face varying from still highly liquid, working it way through various levels of viscosity to fully crusted over.
In any event, driving this morning with two hours of sleep and navigating the fury road with grace and aplomb seemed like a stretch. So I’m taking the opportunity to coat my insides with the full English. Seriously, it’s the best thing after Adam Smith… wait he’s Scottish… never-mind the full English breakfast will reign supreme as the best thing the English have ever done for the world.
Hmm. My wife texts me. She works in one in one of those fancy leafy green suburbs where there neighbors email each other about missing peacocks.
She just wanted to let me know that they’ve found it. Which is obviously quite a relief.