emma has spent too much of her day perusing the internet, reading the various accounts of wrong doings by Feckless Leader and his coterie of evil-doers that she has become positively Napoleonic. In the sense that I feel like a powerless squawking banty cock.
(minus the dangly bits, of course)

And so Friday Evening beckons with the promise of twilight and booze. And I can't promise that I won't,
a. come home drunk
b. come home drunk with (seemingly, at the time) stellar idea that I must share with the world
c . come home drunk, pour myself a drink, and attempt to share said stellar idea with the world
d. come home drunk, have drink in hand, have lit cigarette in hand, have put on either maudlin middle period Jacques Brel, or the Goose is Cooked song that I can't seem to extract from my brainicle.
e. come home drunk, all of the above, and set about transcribing said stellar idea, all rococco style, florrid language, flourish and the works with catsup, punctuated by song lyrics in French, like some precious artsy fartsy fuckwit.
I can't promise that it won't happen...

Then again, I could get lucky and come home drunk with some delightful manflesh...
mmm... manflesh...