Fuck high-speed rail! Forget an energy policy! Americans are now so stupid they have to hire oil skimmers from advanced countries like Taiwan! Hell, Americans cannot run a fucking restaurant chain or a web site! Hell, countries like Spain have a lower infant-mortality rate!
There is no freaking hope. The USA is doomed.
And then this morning is the story of some gentleman of leisure claiming to be the sperm donor of Lebron James. Exhibiting a sense of responsibility and moral development equal to perhaps a barnyard animal, he now wants to establish paternity in order get on the gravy train.
I hope James sues him into eternal poverty.
What the hell kind of country is the US? What the hell kind of people?
Thank you. Now I am hearing a somewhat fucking respectable Pit rant.
I shall sleep well tonight.
The Tony Roma’s in Bangkok is pretty good. A bit pricey compared with some of the other local rib places, like the Great American Rib Company or (our preference) The Roadhouse, but still a nice treat. We only ever order the ribs though, not the chicken. The big complaint we have about Tony Roma’s is the margaritas are only by the glass. No pitchers.
Now you’re hitting your stride, Paul!
Now those little shits are really griping my grits. They sent me a nice note and the phone number of the local manager who is asking to apologize in person. Little shits doing the right thing as if that is going to fool me.
Hell with them all, I say.
That’s about the literacy level that can be expected from a Giants fan.
The latest scandal in my part of China is that a couple dozen of the top restaurants in the city were found knowingly using cooking oil actually skimmed from the public sewers and processed with carcinogenic chemicals to make it resemble something edible. I wouldn’t sign up for Mandarin lessons quite yet!
Why not? You might get a gift card redeemable at any of their piss-soaked locations.
Piss on 'em.
We’re the people who got thrown out of everywhere else. Well, except for the ones that got dragged here in chains, that is.
We used to be able to do things. You know, like tie a continent together with railroads. Now we cannot quite manage to run a web site or a franchise operation.
A nation of hairdressers! Oh, wait, I think that’s supposed to be the British.
Those must have been really bad chicken fingers.
Maybe they were deep-fried in carcinogenic sewer oil.
ETA: Who the hell would even come up with doing that?
Bad enough to destroy an empire.
Dude, they just caught some people out here selling…fake peas. Fake freaking peas.
Ok, gotta ask: what were they really?
Yes I quite agree with you.
I mean what’s the point of being treated like a sheep, I mean I’m fed up going abroad and being treated like a sheep, what’s the point of being carted around in busses, surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Boventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their ‘Sunday Mirrors’, complaining about the tea, ‘Oh they don’t make it properly here do they not like at home’ stopping at Majorcan bodegas, selling fish and chips and Watney’s Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in cotton sun frocks squirting Timothy White’s suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh cos they ‘overdid it on the first day’! And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellevueses and Bontinentals with their international luxury modern roomettes and their Watney’s Red Barrel and their swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending to be acrobats and forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging in to the queues and if you’re not at your table spot on seven you miss your bowl of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night there’s bloody cabaret in the bar featuring some tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some big fat bloated tart with her hair Brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners.And then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with diarrhoea and flabby white legs and hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel, and then, once a week there’s an excursion to the local Roman ruins where you can buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleedin’ Watney’s Red Barrel, and then one night they take you to a local restaurant with local color and coloring and they show you there and you sit next to a party of people from Rhyl who keeps singing ‘Torremolinos, Torremolinos’, and complaining about the food, ‘Oh! It’s so greasy isn’t it?’ and then you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic and Dr Scholl sandals and Tuesday’s ‘Daily Express’ and he drones on and on about how Mr Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up all over the Cuban Libres. And sending tinted postcards of places they don’t know they haven’t even visited, ‘to all at number 22, weather wonderful our room is marked with an “X”. Wish you were here.’ ‘Food very greasy but we have managed to find this marvellous little place hidden away in the back streets.’ ‘Where you can even get Watney’s Red Barrel and cheese and onion…’ ‘…crisps and the accordionist plays “Maybe its because I’m a Londoner”’ and spending four days on the tarmac at Lutton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried Watney’s sandwiches…and there’s nowhere to sleep and the kids are vomiting and throwing up on the plastic flowers and they keep telling you it’ll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland waiting to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can pick you up on the tarmac at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac until six because of ‘unforeseen difficulties’, i.e. the permanent strike of the Air Traffic Control in Paris, and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at eight, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody’s swallowing Enterovioform tablets and queuing for the toilets and when you finally get to the hotel there’s no water in the taps, there’s no water in the pool, there’s no water in the bog and there’s only a bleeding lizard in the bidet, and half the rooms are double-booked and you can’t sleep anyway…
Bonus points if that was all in one breath.