The cursing angels of good and evil.

(Sorry for the bad words.  It's those cursing angels weighing in on the deluge of deer overtaking the village of East Hampton.)

The deer have eaten all of my tomato plants.  What should I do?

Shoot the fuckers.  Why don't they eat the fucking weeds. 

They are God's innocent creatures looking for sustenance.

They ate all of my hosta plants, too. Is it wrong to be mad?

Next they'll be asking for fucking smoothies.

What’s important is they didn’t eat of the fruit of good and evil in Eden. They have no knowledge of doing wrong.

On Sunday, the entire family was strolling right in the middle of Sherrill Road. The father, the mother and two little kids.

Ever hear of Peta?
 

Animal rights, my ass.  They're over living in the woods.  They want to move to the fucking village. 

People paid a lot of money to live in the village how can they just take over.  It's not the Middle Ages.

They're fucking marauders trespassing and stealing.

Think Alaska where the moose roam free. It makes for a charming ambiance. 

This morning one of them was coming out of my garage.

To quote Kris Jenner on Kim’s romance with Kanye “The hart wants what the heart wants.” 

Just shut the fuck up.

(To redeem myself for the above, I've reviewed a literary classic.)

For their Penguin Classics Deluxe re-issue series, I was offered a review copy of John O’Hara’s  Appointment In Samarra.  

Prolific American novelist and short story writer, John O’Hara never got the reverence accorded Scott Fitzgerald or Ernest Hemingway even though he was an excellent writer who knew what went on between men and women of the upper classes.   O’Hara, like John Cheever was a beautiful people stalker and pressed his nose up to that life with bitterness.  While Cheever’s major territory was suburban emotional displacement, O’Hara concentrated on small town elites and never more impressively than in Appointment In Samarra a near perfect look at the destructive dead end alley known as the pursuit of status and the American Dream in the first half of the last century. The term wastrel comes to mind.   O’Hara has his special revenge for the careless fools who fritter away their social advantage.  Poor John O’Hara, he never got his due either in life or in literary circles and he never got over it.

(John O'Hara had more stories published in the New Yorker than any other writer.)