Okay, this time I mean it. I’m calling a blog holiday today.
Three hours of driving, three huge meals, another (much-appreciated) round of gift-exchanging, and a sick wife (who seems intent on giving her wretched disease to me) later… and I find that I’m all blogged out for the second day in a row. Sorry.
So get out there and do some post-Christmas (or after-Chanukah, or mid-Kwanzaa) revelling, and take it easy for another day, just like I did yesterday, and am doing again today.
(‘Easy’, as always, being a relative term, of course. Hell, I wrote more yesterday to explain that I wasn’t going to blog than many people post in a whole frigging week’s worth of entries. But if I’m not writing a damned opus, worthy of division into chapters, a glossary, and a page of references, then I don’t consider it real ‘writing‘. For me, anyway. Berkeley Breathed can make me laugh with three words and a picture of Opus with a bent-up nose. Douglas Adams can have me snorting OJ out my nose in a paragraph.
Alas, it takes me a bit longer to get warmed up. Sorry to make you suffer.)
Anyway, my wife is zonked out on the couch, no doubt dripping snot, or drool, or both, on the pillows. Meanwhile, I’m starting to feel like I have a hamster in my throat.
(Yeah, most people would say ‘frog’, but this feels distinctly fuzzier than a frog. It’s definitely a hamster, or a gerbil. Maybe even a woodchuck. It’s starting to taste a bit gamey, too. I’m pretty sure that doesn’t bode well for my health over the next couple of days.)
So, I’m afraid the daily dose of drivel is going to be curtailed again today. I do hope you’ll keep checking in until I’m home, and rested, and well enough to bring you the convoluted reams of crap that you’ve come to expect.
(And which you so richly deserve, of course. But hey, I’m not here to point fingers about who was on Santa’s ‘naughty’ list, now, am I? Hell, I’ve gotten nothing but coal for the past twenty-five years. ‘Jolly Saint Nick’, my hairy ass.
You can suck a reindeer turd, you grudge-holding overstuffed elf. You hear me, Claus?!)
Okay, sorry about that. I’m not really quite so bitter — that’s probably just the crazed homocidal virus in my lungs talking. So lest I piss off any other holiday icons, like the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy, I think I’ll just take some NyQuil and hit the sack. I’ve still got another full day’s worth of glad-handing and nodding-and-smiling to get through with the family, so I’m gonna need my rest. If I go up to Grandma’s with this sour puss on, she’ll rip me a new one. Granny’s a sweet old lady, and she makes some mean Christmas cookies, but come in her house talking smack, and she’ll bitch-slap your ass right into the yard.
The old lady doesn’t fuck around come winter — you come in with your Christmas spirit thang goin’ on, or you don’t come in at all. I learned that the hard way a couple of years ago, let me tell you. I finally recovered around March or so, but it was not a pleasant winter that year. Let’s just say I’ll never sit down quite right — or look at candy canes the same way — ever again. Think about that when you’re hanging the little bastards on your tree next year. Those mothers should be registered as lethal weapons, man… and Granny uses the curved kind, too. Those things hurt. Twice!
I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m off to get a few precious hours of antihistamine-induced sleep. Nighty-night, folks!Permalink | 1 Comment