It doesn't happen too often thankfully, given my propensity for frequenting bars of notoriety, that I get into an unresolvable disagreement with a fellow fool. Thus it was last Saturday that a gentlemanly disagreement compelled me to turn a chair over a chap of minimimilist logic. He left quickly.
I felt badly afterwards but felt much worse when a fellow patron of the bar pointed out the poorly executed alteration the fleeing fuck-wit had made to my jacket. I was however relieved that I managed retain some dignity; my silk pocket square stayed in place during the entire cuffufle.
I usually remove my hat before embarkation, as this usually signals to any fellow wrangler of my unhappy intentions, i.e. To instill a firm understanding of “The Gooobye Look.” He shall be hearing from my Tailor!
For the casual observer, if that you be, this shabby chic photograph of two pig feet in my living room may hold no value whatsoever, but to those of you who may have an eye for fine detail it will be unavoidably be drawn to the awareness of a highlighted black dot. What the fuck is it you ask your well trained eye? I shall tell you. It is a spider. Not that interesting, and out of focus to boot you say? True, but this spider is literally hanging by a thread, from the ceiling, mmmnnnnn a bit dull you may grunt? BUT Sirs and Ladies this spider is by all accounts a Dead Spider. Yes, DEAD LEGS BORIS on a thread. Was it going up or coming down? We shall never know, perhaps it was attempting a corner, we shall not know even after the Coroner has left. Was it a suicide? Was it hoist with its own petard, or did it run out of yarn? Poor fucker swinging in the breeze like that. Feel a bit bad about taking the photograph now. Pondering the plight of the pigs.