When the current shitshorm passes, people will do even more feasting and orgying to mark the occasion of the solstice. So at least we’ve got that to look forward to.
My supervisor asked me last week during lunch break about the last meal I would have if I were on death row. Not that I would actually do anything to warrant being on death row. A hypothetical question obviously, in light of the fact that capital punishment has been prohibited in Canada since 1976.
As for the answer, it was a traditional Scottish haggis supper with neeps and tatties. My supervisor reacted with disgust. I could tell right away she had never tried haggis in her life. It’s a trait shared by everyone I’ve ever met with similar sentiments towards the “great chieftain o the puddin’-race”. They have never tried it.
Way back in the day, during a much more footloose and fancy free period of world history before such phrases as social distancing and covfefe were introduced to the lexicon, I met a cute little kitten. That cute little kitten has since grown into a lioness. Learned that the hard way. The result of a hiccup in my better judgement, during a typical 2020 moment when I was all but convinced civilization was about to collapse tomorrow.
Late one night, The Demon Alcohol (who I haven’t danced with since) convinced me it would be a gas and a half to whip out my phone and drop that cute little kitten I used to know a seemingly innocent line. The response was a deluge of hitherto-unsaid accumulated rage unleashed upon me in a single email. Her words came straight from the cockles of her heart, and stung like hell. A kind of deep intensive stinging you don’t notice at first, but permeates your whole being down to the marrow once it finally hits you and decimates your libido for about forty-eight hours afterward. I would recover quickly from that burn, but hot damn. The woman definitely has skills.
Invoking the wrath of a lioness is certainly nothing I would encourage anyone to try at home. But if one finds oneself in one of those situations where getting mauled by a lioness is unavoidable, at least that stinging feeling has given us all the best music. It is to the blues* what milk is to cheese.
*Country music, too. Arguably. But I just can’t get into that shit. The whole genre has been little more than teen pop with ten-gallon hats and Martin guitars since that week Miley Cyrus’ dad was famous. It also appeals to hyperconservative Trumpist types, which only adds to its yuck factor.