The prevailing thought on my mind has been: “Wow, amazing that someone can be accused of being a pedophile, be so odd that eccentric doesn’t quite cut it, mangle their appearance with surgery to the point of abject disfigurement … yet still be mourned by millions. It says a lot about one’s accomplishments.”

Or, it at least cites how highly suspect is the value of public opinion. People, in general, have notoriously bad judgment and dubious taste.

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It’s a rainy day. Rainy days tend to be ruminative for me. It’s because the forbidding weather prevents outdoor sojourns, except in the case of necessity, and it leaves a lot of idle time indoors during which the wheels spin and spin some more.

Looking at my “home” page on Shitbook (I’m loath to mention the comination of visage and reading material for fear of giving the dreck a reverse plug. As much as I’m used to using it, I still revile the obnoxious and oft insipid, growing colony of bacteria-like narcissism), I saw the post of my misanthropic rant about a cross-dresser and a sad-sack twerp who was just shy of public masturbation.

I rarely take the time to look any deeper than what people present in public and form my perceptions on what I see; I use the immediate picture. I don’t think that’s so strange … in fact, I imagine it to be quite common. First impressions are just that.

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I mentioned the old, hideous, bat-shit crazy dude who was wearing a dress on the train the other day. Here’s the photo I took. But as I recounted the encounter, I remembered there was another freak on that train near to whom I had the great misfortune to sit.

Picture a short, flabby, unattractive man. The kind of man most people would assume still lives with his mother and hasn’t seen a pussy since he was squeezed out for the first time. He was strange and odd and he held in his hands a book by the unapologetic skank who subjected humanity to ‘Sex and the City.’

The book’s title was something to do with one-night stands. Obviously a book written by a slut for sluts or at least women who are not sluts but wish to live vicariously through one. Either way it breaks down, it’s chick-lit … and this sad-sack schmuck was reading it while licking his lips like he’d been sat down before a full-course meal after starving for a lifetime.

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