37 Days

gouna pool
The annoying Talayna in the villa next door have ruined the first nice weekend warm enough to swim in the pool: this is the Gouna two-step, at the first sign of good weather, the place becomes infested with loud people, who invariably travel in packs

I am returning to America in a little over a month, and am dreading it — although it shall be lovely to see me Mum in New York again, and of course my wife in Florida.

The idea of being in the same country as the toxic Orange Pig — who now seems to be gearing up to meet Kim Jong Un, yet another bizaroid lunatic, as some sort of pointless, empty suit macho political posturing event, prior to launching a possible nuclear conflict in NK (and, later, Iran) to save his lamentable presidency — is intolerable.

Everyone is waiting for Mueller to drop the hammer. How Trump reacts when Mueller nails him could very well lead to civil war — unless the Russian stooge continues with ever more outrageous circus acts simply to delay the inevitable. Imposing martial law is not out of the question, if millions begin to descend on Washington to remove this madman from the WH, and the Ar-15 crowd shows up to teach those libtard antifa traitors who’s who and what’s what.  This is where this is all heading; from my admittedly distant vantage point in Gouna, it is rather obvious.

In the meantime, the idea that America could be so easily brought to her knees like a cheap slut giving a blowjob to some diseased whoremonger lays to rest any notion of the supposed greatness of that country.

I can only imagine what my grandson will one day think, once his generation has to start paying off the trillions of debt that this calamity of a president and his corrupt, racist party has saddled them with.

I am most definitely going to book a round trip back to Gouna.  I will start moving my stuff into the new villa next Wednesday (I have the right to stay here in this one till next Thursday, the pool is no longer ice-cold, so I shall enjoy, starting Monday, when the Italian dickwads clear out of here, three days of swimming till then. So, bottom line: a three month rental, culminating in only three days of potential swimming time, unless the weather changes or other neighbors move in next door and have themselves a delirious Gouna party time, three days out of three months to enjoy the unheated pool during that entire time; kind of makes you wonder why you should bother having one, particularly when it gets really hot in a month or so and the pool becomes a magnet for breeding skeeters).

If the new villa is suitable (I like being closer to town for the convenience of it, as well as the proximity to the sea), I shall most likely book it again starting in early October.  I will miss Sandy when I leave here, but will not regret the intolerable skeeter situation in this house.

She just can’t keep her little eyes open for long, despite the charming olive oil dawsha next door

But I am absolutely dreading once again having to being in the skin-crawling presence of right-wing America when I get to FLA.

As it now stands, I will be in my hometown of the mind, NYC — where numerous places are trying to remove the despised Trump name off their buildings — to visit Mum for a brief time, and shall stop by the Egyptian Consulate in Manhattan.

It is now located in the East Village on 7th Street (at 110 2nd Ave Rm 201, to be exact, whereas it used to be uptown on the UES), and apply for a 9 month visa, which is possible to do.  I believe Donald Trump will be removed from office within a year, so that will work just fine.

I plan to spend a few days with Mum, or longer if need be, and plan to troll my old haunts in the East Village and elsewhere.  I look forward to that so much, even though the city I have lived in for 30 years has changed almost beyond recognition.

But it is New York, and now that I’m no longer a fat old Florida fuck, I can walk about just like the old days, no problemo — especially since the toe thingie has healed up nicely, thank you very much.

I do not want to live in America until the Orango Khanzeer is removed from office, but I must also bear in mind the responsibilities I have in the US, and not just think about myself.

Big toe on right foot almost healed!

But I will never waver in my absolute determination to oppose everything that vile disgusting ignorant animal stands for, and am determined to stay away from the US until he is impeached or voted out of office in 2020.

Until then, I will try to live as little as possible in an America that has been infected with acute Trumplandia disease: that is why I am now an expat (for the last 6 months, and counting) — I may not have any power to remove Donald Trump from office, but I can remove myself from directly being subjected to the ubiquitous stench of his malevolent, avaricious presence, him, and all the rest of the Bible-thumping, gun-loving retards who cheer his every despicable move.

In the meantime, there’s Real Madrid vs Elbar to look forward to tomorrow at 2PM.

One of the loutish wops from the next door villa. I tried swimming in the pool at 4:30PM, but then they turned on some blaring radio, so that was that. Nowhere in Gouna is peaceful, when it is nice. Sure enough, when the sun dipped over the mountains around 5:30PM, and the desert cold descended like some ice pick, as the wind ripped up, yup, they all took off for some drunken loud downtown dinner, oblivious at having ruined what could have been a beautiful first day in the pool.

Wonder if the dragos (who are nowhere near retirement age) in the villa next door will suddenly realize that their endless chattering and yammer means absolutely nothing in the scheme of things, that whatever insignificant things they say will be forgotten by morrow, and that it will at last occur to them, once and for all, to shut the fuck up and perhaps admire the mountains and the lagoon instead of coming here for the sole purpose of creating a three or four-day ruckus, every fucking week, probably, now that the weather is pleasant.

It is the endless lament of the solitary expat: do I resent the extroverted happiness of others (who evince no obvious interest in talking with me), or do I simply crave solitude and the deep silence needed to reinvigorate one’s sense of spirituality?

Alas, even in the desert mountains, there would be no relief, for nowhere on this earth are we truly alone, as even the wings of our guardian angels do not flutter noiselessly.

leaving america



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