“One of these nine lives it’s gonna be me putting you in a plastic satchel and taking you to the vet.”
Miss Mia Sopaipilla is resting comfortably in her custom BedCave® after having a cyst removed from just above her right eye.
One day the thing was just sort of … there, like bad news from DeeCee. So I took her to the vet to get it checked out. Vet drains it and says: “Full disclosure: These things can come back, sometimes almost immediately, and occasionally even bigger.”
The only real fix is to take it off, she added.
Well, it did come back, almost immediately. And it looked bigger, but pretty much everything does when it’s front and (off) center on your furry friend’s face.
Thus, we scheduled the surgery, which took place yesterday. And now we can’t call her “Knothead” anymore.
When the John Laws collared their suspect in the CEO assassination he was said to have had in his possession a ghost gun, some fake I.D., and a 262-word “manifesto.”
A 262-word manifesto?
By the ghosts of Marx and Engels! That’s what I call phoning it in.
Except our man didn’t use a phone to compose it. Or a laptop. It was handwritten. Whether on papyrus, stone tablets, or a shithouse wall was not made clear.
What is abundantly clear, however, is that 262 words do not a manifesto make. And let me tell you why.
Yes, yes, yes, it’s time for another political-science fiction episode of Radio Free Dogpatch.
December is National Fruitcake Month, which should surprise exactly no one paying attention to the shenanigans in the nation’s capital.
But let’s not go there, hey? Whaddaya say? Tom Nichols at The Atlantic has posited that our latest Long National Nightmare will not be at an end for the better part of quite some time. It is a marathon, not a sprint, says Tom.
So let’s just jog gently along for a bit, as though we were trying to sweat out the whiskey from a long night of debauchery and hoping to forget (or perhaps remember) all the stupid shit we did while in our cups.
December always feels like an ending to me. Or perhaps the beginning of the end. Rarely am I in a celebratory state of mind.
For instance, this December I will enjoy not one, but two visits to the dentist. The first, yesterday, was for a routine cleaning; the other will be for replacement of a couple fillings that date back to my tenure as a union copy editor at The Pueblo Chieftain, 40 years ago.
“I don’t have the truck I was driving then, so I guess it’s time to get rid of these old fillings,” I quipped as the dentist Indiana Jones’d his way around the archaeology of my piehole.
“Mmm hmm,” he replied, no doubt thinking of his RV payment. “Keep up that home care.”
I was already the Mad Dog in 1984, but it would be seven years, a couple extended stretches of unemployment, and two more newspapers before I finally hopped the rickety fence of unsteady employment and went kyoodling after the bicycles, full speed ahead, damn the health insurance, sick leave, and dentistry.
Fortunate I am to have escaped the dental fate that befell Shane MacGowan. ’Tis a wonder that I have teefers to fill at all so.
Looks all Dr. Hunter S. Thompsonesque, but this shit wouldn’t get a fly high.
I haven’t had a good hard sock in the snotlocker since the Before-Time, when I was shambling around half -drunk among the sneezers, wheezers and squeezers infesting the Interbike trade show in Sin City, chronicling the ups and downs of the bicycle biz for one magazine or another.
But I got one this fall, the sort that requires medical intervention, and just in time for the 2024 pestilential erection, too.
A daily fistful of antibiotics and steroids may cure what ails the sinuses but doesn’t do shit for the psyche as the electorate inexplicably sends the Clown Prince of Mar-a-Lago and his battalion of bozos back to the Oval Office to finish the job of putting the Republic up on blocks and stripping it for salable parts.
I can’t find a physician’s assistant who’ll write me a ’scrip for mescaline, psilocybin, or Old Reliable, the fabled L-S-Dizzy, not even at urgent care. And oy, is this ever a case for urgent care.
So I guess we’ll have to rely on talk therapy. Which means – yes, yes, yes —it’s time for another dose of Radio Free Dogpatch. Sorry; doctor’s orders. Look on the bright side — it’s not a suppository.
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