We Who Are About to Die Salute You

Man, I feel like crap.

No, I take that back. I’ve felt like crap in the past, and it felt much better than this. I’d have to characterize my current feeling as some sort of genetically altered and superior strain of Mutant Supercrap…squared.

You see, faithful readers and captivated disciples, when I got back home from Hurricane Tour ’05, all of my kids had the stomach flu.

Did I ever tell you I have three kids?

Well, I do. All with the stomach flu.

But they’re feeling better now, thank goodness. Apparently because they all three passed their particular cases of Malaysian Nuclear Hyperflu on to Daddy through some sort of Vulcan Virus-Meld process.

But what can you do?

I’ll tell you what you can do…You can Yakkity Yak Don’t Talk Back.

And you can do plenty of it.

This morning’s session of Kneeling at the Porcelain Confessional produced results that looked suspiciously like pizza, which wouldn’t bother me so much if I hadn’t had chicken for dinner.

But here I am, as always…sitting on surveillance…sweating out a fever with a temperature somewhere between nuclear fission and the fourth level of hell…praying to the God of my father and his fathers before him for death or 2 PM, whichever comes sooner.

Hail Caesar.


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