The Namaste Lady, Redux

Does everybody remember the Namaste lady?

The lady I delighted by explaining what it would mean if our Traitor in Chief were rotting with syphilis from the inside out? I made her truly happy, I think–she said it was the happiest she’d been in three years, thinking about his flesh rotting from his bones in big painful nerve-searing lumps.

Goddess love her–we had another conversation today.

Now, I try to keep my, uh, spicier side out of the pool. My language is almost pristine (almost) and my sarcasm is dialed in low, but she’s one of the few raging liberals there who knows all they have to do is turn the key in the lock and they see the real me.

Today, as we were doing short laps across the pool, bicycle style, the key in the lock turned out to be, “God, that LGBTQ ruling is going up to the courts today. I shudder to think about it.” She has a grandson who is gay, and is fiercely protected. I adore her.

She said this in passing, so if you can imagine, the two of us get to opposite sides of the pool (or one of us got to the lane lines in the middle of the pool and the other got to the side) before we turned around slowly–sloth-style–bicycled back, and we could talk in passing again.

And I said, “Yeah, and Trump’s got his dick so far down Kavanaugh’s throat, Kavanaugh has to ask permission to breathe.”

Well, my Namaste lady laughed for the entire time it took for us to reach our opposite ends and turn around, and on the next pass she said, “Thank you for that–that’s delightful! It’s the most disgusting image I can possibly think of. They’re just such vile human beings.”

We sloth-paddled to opposite sides, turned around, and came back again, and she said, “And it’ll put me off my feed! I always eat too much in the fall! You’re the best!”

So there you go. Sometimes, it’s GOOD to show the real me.

But only with someone who appreciates a terrible description of the world’s most awful people.

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