Uncle Slappy returns.

Since I was away for much of the last two weeks, and since the World Pinocle Championship was being held on the Grand Concourse in the Bronx, my Uncle Slappy took the train up from Florida to spend some time in New York. At his request, the post below is from him.

OK, Mr. Hoity Toity, I'll admit I'm no Spring chicken but I have to tell you I don't trust anyone under 50. It seems that entire generations in America have had their ferstunkeneh heads fall off their shoulders.

I could talk about how they get their news from shiny white teeth where they talk about virtually nothing but Lindsay Lohan's tuchas, or from free newspapers where ads for laser bunion removal take up more space than actual articles, I could talk about all that. But I won't.

What I want to talk about, schnook, is symbolic.

For the last four days in New York it's been pissing rain like a racehorse. Ordinarily I'd stay home under such conditions. But with the Pinocle championship going on, I had to take the train up to the Concourse. What do I see amidst all this rain liquifying, you should pardon my language, dog feces, dog urine, bum vomit and general filth? What do I see walking through this near toxic slurry? I don't even want to go out this my rubbers on! But what do I see?

I see skinny girls talking on cell-phones in the rain and walking through puddles wearing flippy floppy sandals.

Just touching with your little finger the filth that runs through New York when it rains could give you deadly cancer of the ear--but these girls--and some boys, too, mind you, are slogging through puddles like Washington crossing the cockamamie Delaware in sandals that maybe, just maybe, are appropriate for the beach.

This is the generation we are trusting our futures too, Big Shot.

Me, I'm sticking to pinocle.