Tomorrow I will have had this friggin’ bug for a week and I can tell you the sonofabitch has most definitely overstayed its welcome.
I have launched two tureens of chicken noodle soup against the invader (“From hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee.”) and yet it remains encamped upon my ribcage, brazenly flying its yellow-and-green Kleenex banners. Ptui.
Tomorrow I’m escalating to Scotch broth with kale. And after that, the B-52s.
I really should avoid redistributing shit like this, but it sure beats trying to write your own comedy while recovering from the Masque of the Red Death. As the NYVelocity crowd noted via Twitter, “Oh fer chrissakes there’s another Toto outrun by reality.”
Joe Lindsey has tweeted a call for questions to be posed to TCWSNBN, and some of the offerings are worth a look. If you are of the Twitterati, look for hashtag #questionsforlance. Hell, kick in a few yourselves. Everybody dance.
I’ll tell you what will take your mind off TCWSNBN real fast — the flu that’s going around.
Lordy sweet Jeebus, I recommend in the strongest possible terms that you do not contract this bad boy. It got me on Friday and ever since I have felt like I got et by a coyote and shit off a cliff. Not even green chile helps. Hell, I don’t even want a drink, so you know it’s bad. That said, some of my symptoms might belong to the DTs rather than the flu, so your mileage may vary.
Needless to say, I did not get up at dark-thirty this morning to hustle up some pirate video of Katie Compton clinching the World Cup title in Rome. No, instead I curled fetus-like under a heap of sweaty bedclothes, emitting feeble mewling sounds interspersed with mighty honks into tissues and the occasional hacking jag one might expect from a Vegas bluehair working three slot machines at once with a Chesterfield glued to her lower lip.
Later, in the shower, after a few moments of abominable racket reminiscent of a pack of werewolves with kennel cough trying to kick-start their Harleys I passed a lung biscuit the approximate size, shape and color of an apricot. I thought it bore the likeness of Our Lord, but that was probably just the flu. Or the DTs.
From Juliet Macur at The New York Times. Discuss.
Happy New Year to all you hungover old dogs out there. Here’s hoping you did not overdo it last night.
Herself and I actually made it to midnight, and I overslept for some reason, so breakfast turned into brunch. It being a new year, I test-flew a new recipe for bacon-potato cakes, from “The Feed Zone Cookbook” by Biju Thomas and Allen Lim.
It wasn’t bad, but was a shade bland for my taste, despite involving three of the four basic food groups (bacon, potato and cake). Next time around I’ll punch that sucker up with a little garlic, maybe some red chile powder, a bit of cumin, for sure some Mexican oregano. At the moment I’m kicking myself for not adding a dollop of the red chile sauce I made for enchiladas the other night. That would have put the old fire in the belly. Or the fire in the old belly. Whatever.
Speaking of things that need punching up (or out) I see “our” elected representatives in the nation’s capital have been up to the usual not much beyond redefining upward the definition of “middle class.” We seem to be a few hundred thousand short of that particular finish line, which is probably why the prez never replies to my brunch invitations.
You can read more than you care to about the fiscal-cliff shenanigans at:
• The Maddow Blog (Steve Benen).
• The Atlantic (Matthew O’Brien).
• Political Animal (Ed Kilgore).
• The Nation (William Greider).
Mad Blog Media 