No, let's NOT do the time-warp again...

But yet, here I am, having fallen asleep at 5 a.m. this morning, pecking out rabble-rousing, incoherent, snot-covered dribble for the masses. What the fork? Salad or dinner, you ask?

Gosh, it only took me four hours to get through my phone calls and emails from being out sick for ONE day. What the spoon? Wait, that's not funny. What the utensil? Also, not funny.

Just when you get used to sizzling in the bowels of hell, something worse happens and you find out a whole new batch of bile is coming down the proverbial pike to rough up your last nerve. Yea, I speak of "The Last Straw." And I'm not talking about a flexible straw either.

What dost thou speaketh of fair cuticle-gnawer, you ask? Prey tell, I ain't gonna tell. It's one step up from the cardboard box and the soup line. It's one step down from just about everything. It's finger-gnawing bad. It's risk and maybe no reward. It's a dumbass beginning every line with "It's."

What the hell? I used to be kind of a lucky person. When did I get to be fodder for geese with severe diarrhea? You can only fart around in the bowels of fate so long before you start to smell like shit.

I guess it's a good thing I have a bad cold. I can't smell a darn thing.

Love and kisses, y'all.