... of being sick and tired.
I try to write here about something on the Great Outside that interests (or, usually, dismays) me. I know It Isn't All About Me. But seriously, folks, I've been sick for a solid week now, and I've had it. It is, as you may have noticed, way too much trouble to even get online, much less write a post. Tonight the fever's back. Screw a whole bunch of going to the day job tomorrow ... I'm going to see Dr. H (or her nurse-practitioner) and try to get me some good dope, so I either get well or cease to care. Shouldn't have gone to work this morning; when I got up, the lung butter I was coughing up was gray, and "that don't seem right."
I can't even work up a little rant about Weasel Dubya and his Democratic enablers. And, to rip off the late Cleavon Little from "Blazing Saddles:" A man cough like that, and he don't even care about Chimpy ... he is gon' to die!
And then, to rip off Gene Wilder: When?