Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

As regular friends of the decanter will know,  Tuesday is the lowest ebb of Robbo’s week, the day that always seems longer and drearier than any other.  Therefore, you will understand why I so often go to teh random as I’m about to do now:

Today is the anniversary of the murder at the hands of the Parisian mob of Marie Antoinette in 1793.  Poor woman.  Poor, poor woman.  I often wonder whether her reputation in popular culchah (sullied originally by enemies at court not because she was rich or spoiled but because she was Austrian, and later sensationalized by the blood-thirsty masters of the Terror) will ever be fully restored.

Speaking of famous deaths, as I read yet another Nationals play-off postmortem bewailing the decision to bench ace pitcher Stephen Strasburg and dwelling  bitterly on What Might Have Been had the team kept him in the rotation, I decided on a new name for those who just won’t let this thing go.  From now on, I’m calling them “Stras-holes”.  Enough, already!

Speaking of basta, I don’t know about you, but I am pretty durn sick and tired of the campaign season.   As much as I’d like to dismiss the whole biznay from my mind, I simply can’t stop myself from obsessively keeping up with The Latest.  It gets to be mighty wearing.

The latest Barbie® Doll catalog turned up in the Port Swiller Manor mailbox last evening.  The gels were never really very interested in Barbie®, preferring to be assimilated instead into the American Girl collective, the gravitational force of which can pull a man’s wallet right out of his pocket at 500 yards.   Anyhoo, as I idly flipped through it (like Tom – or is it Ray? – Magliozzi, I read everything), I couldn’t help noticing that this year’s Holiday Barbie®  bears a remarkable likeness to Taylor Swift.  And as I pointed out to one of the gels, they are no doubt comparable in both intelligence and talent as well.   The gel laughed.  Taylor Swift is a loathsome heretic as far as they are concerned, having committed the heinous crime of starting off country but going pop.

On a whim sparked by some childhood memory or other, I picked up a couple cans of deviled ham for this week’s lunch rotation.  As I made sammiches last evening, Bella, the greedier of our cats, became increasingly agitated because to her it looked as if I had opened one of her cans of food and yet wasn’t giving her any.  When you consider what “paté-style” cat food looks like, this was a not unreasonable mistake.

Last evening I caught some of The Outlaw Josey Wales on one of the cable networks.  It’s been a while since I’d seen it and I’d forgotten that Dean Wormer played the principal guy chasing Josey.  This got me to musing on what the equivalent might have been to “Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life, son”  when his character Fletcher came face to face with Clint.  (I couldn’t come up with one, but it was an amusing concept.)

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