God. Damn. It is hot.
In hillbilly news, Tyrone soundly thrashed Antrim today with a lead of 2-14 over 1-13 - yes, I'm talking redneck gibberish no sensible person should understand. A bit like Hebrew, in that respect.
Beer in this hand, salted peanuts (not a euphemism) in the other, eyes glazed as I watch furrow-browed neanderthals (some actual relations among them, believe it or not) scrape their knuckles through the mud in a contest of wills that is not and never will be a real sport - dammit but I am a million miles from civilisation. I bet there's probably some Afghan chap sitting in a cactus-juice bar watching his cousins on the tv as they throw burning goats at each other and lamenting inwardly that he doesn't draw enough Spider-Man pictures in a day, because at heart I really do believe it's that small a world. To him I offer advice I often give myself: chin up, Abdul Mohammad Chomhgaill - tomorrow is brighter still!
In other late to the party news: fucking magnets - how do they work?
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