Tolerance

I worry so much about what I am allowed to do and show in the Time of Trump.  The poles begin to meet when it comes to tolerance.  I mean, there isn't any.  Every image is a battleground now, every utterance up for dissection.  There are hidden explosives everywhere.  It is best not to move.  Stay put.

Run, Hide, Fight.

Oy.  Yesterday morning the power went out.  When it came back on, I had no internet.  Hence, if you were wondering, that is why you did not hear from me.

I didn't get to read Q's post about my addiction to horse pills, whatever he was saying.  I don't know if it was speed or downers or viagra.  Maybe it was a mean combination of all three.  Now that he has committed himself to a triathlon, he is wondering how I have done it all these years.  He admitted yesterday that he needed training wheels on his new ten thousand dollar bike.  Some men just buy a BMW convertible to bring back their youth.  Q will do a triathlon.

O.K.  O.K.  I bought a Vespa.  It was easy.  I've shed twenty years of bad living.  I've kicked the horse tranquilizers.  It's all herbal tea and fresh air now.  And long walks.  After Q hurts himself "training," he will learn the pleasures of long, healthful walks.

I slept late this morning and have thrown off my whole routine.  But I felt the need to set the record straight after a day without modern conveniences.  Q likes to kick a man when he's down.  He has little tolerance.