Solstice, from the Latin solstitium, which means, “Aw, shit, here we go again. …”
The Duck! City is foggier than the deets about Rudy the Mook’s bank balance this morning.
Alas for The Mook, a judge has ordered that a hard cold light be directed upon his finances in order that at least two of the people he’s run his Scotch-addled yap at may be compensated for the damages they have endured. Like, immediately, as in now.
The judge may have to send over a team of marshals to beat it out of him, like loan sharks collecting from a deadbeat horse player. Sell the footage to ESPN and the ladies might yet get a little sumpin’-sumpin’ off the top. Beats spending the next few months digging holes in his yard looking for moldy shoeboxes stuffed with fat stax wrapped in plastic.
Whenever I skip the second cup of strong, black coffee for a tall, steaming mug of tea with honey, you may be certain that I am unwell.
Herself picked up a bug (not The Bug) about 10 days ago, one of those raspy coughers that keeps everyone in the house awake, and come Thursday I was quietly congratulating myself for having dodged it when I began to sense a disturbance in the Force during a short trail run.
By Friday it was me hacking away like a lunger with a three-pack-a-day habit, chain-smoking Luckies through the port in my windpipe. Kane didn’t make that much racket when the baby Alien did his “Heeeeeere’s Johnny!” number at dinner on the Nostromo.
I hit the couch early on and stayed there, and when that proved exhausting I went to bed, around 7:30. And I stayed there until 7:30 this morning.
The fun part about having a bad cough is trying to find a position in which you can grab a bit of shuteye between eruptions. I usually sleep on my left side, but that was right out. So was the right side.
The only position that worked for me was flat on my back, just like Kane on the galley table.
The good news is, there was no blood on the sheets this morning and no midget Aliens chasing Miss Mia Sopaipilla around the house.
The bad news is I don’t feel up to throwing out a few half-baked zingers like “Rudy the Mook should be tossed in the sneezer until he can remember his bank balance,” or “The U.S. House of Reprehensibles resembles a legitimate legislative body in the same way that a tank-town dog pound resembles the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show,” or maybe “How is it that we still care more about Matthew Perry than anybody in Gaza?”
Mad Blog Media 