Yes, we are aware that one of our high school friends is recovering from a very, very serious back problem, and that the global economy is being dragged down the tubes by China.
But the blog is a sick man, and we need to whine.
We are now on on Day 18 of Killer Horror Chest Gunk That Is Not Flu, But Which Is Way Worse Than Ebola With Angry Chest Badgers.
We are now on our second doctor and third antibiotic.
And we are pretty much coughing our head off today because Doctor Number Two said that, most of the time, cough medicine is a very bad idea.
Which means this blog has spent $45 on three bottles of cough medicine that, turns out, has actually thrilled the 10 billion killer horror virus germs in our chest and bronchial tubes, which feel like angry chest badgers on crack.
They are very, very angry because the blog has thrown everything at them but the kitchen sink, and yet they continue burrowing like mad and breeding.
(I cannot wait to hear the doctor’s comments about yesterday’s chest x-ray: “old, round patient presented with what appears to be 10 billion killer horror chest badgers, for which there is no treatment protocol, so we are going to go play golf.”)
In addition to the three, count them, THREE ANTIBIOTICS, we have attacked the chest badgers with potions and lotions and natural whup-ass recommended by my sister, Junior’s girlfriend the natural food and meds expert, and from my late Mom’s arsenal of cure-alls, including:
- Colloidal silver
- Black tea with a whole lemon and honey
- Tea made from “sage” (and possibly mud) from the Missus’ garden
- Cough medicine with expectorant
- Cough medicine without expectorant
- Cough medicine with built in phlegm
- $28 worth of Lemsip
- A No. 2 washtub of freshly squeezed lemon juice (from the Missus’ garden)
- A bucket of Vitamin C tablets and pills and dust PLUS…
- Small silver packets (shaped like McDonald’s ketchup) of the super duperest, purest, most natural form of concentrated Vitamin C on the planet, which, as we understand it, is made by using the super collider super conductor to collapse the universe, squeeze out every Vitamin C atom, and then suck the suns from 10 million galaxies right out of their orbits and in to the little silver packets (which cost $1.50 each), creating a Nuclear Vitamin C paste that tastes like chewable vitamin C tablets that have been rolled through a hospital tuberculosis ward.
- Vicks VapoRub, applied liberally to my chest, the soles of my feet inside woolly socks, and to my moustache (and, thus, my eyeballs)
- Throat lozenges purchased from gas stations, pharmacies, health food shops, and a guy named Iggy who hangs out behind the pool hall
- Oil of Eucalyptus (inhaled over the bathroom sink, just before horking up numerous lungs and a tennis shoe)
- Asthma inhaler
- and, while we do not recall consuming moonshine or heroin, we could be wrong
This is because, even on the blog’s best of days, keeping track of stuff is not our strong suit.
So the blog trying to keep an organized record of when we took all of the above, using the Missus’ cute little square sheets of papers, in a rainbow of attractive colors, is the ultimate effort in futility.
This is because a) we almost certainly have early onset Alzheimers due to high school football concussions, according to the Missus; b) what was the question; and c) no one on the planet, including ourownself, can read the blog’s handwriting.
To wit: “I think that either says, ‘took 2 ibuprofen and both antibiotics’ or possibly ‘gargled with squirrel juice and licked 2 emus’.”
And to top this off, the blog’s temperature has at times SOARED to 38 degrees Celsius, which, if you convert it, must be well over 900 degrees.
Touch and Go
It makes the humble blog uncomfortable saying this, but, considering our numerous near death experiences, and being subjected to weeks of New Zealand’s awful daytime TV shows, we have been far braver than the Yanks on a Train.
While we don’t begrudge the French government giving these guys all sorts of honors, the blog figures that, at the least, we deserve the Congressional Medal of Honor, an iron lung, some very old Scotch, and a new hobbit puppy.
But that’s just the blog. All heroically pathetic.
Coughing at the bottom of the world.
In the cold, New Zealand winter rain.
(A very serious one about abortion)
Oh little baby, you’ll never cry, nor will you hear a sweet lullabye.
Oh unborn child, if you only knew just what your momma was plannin’ to do.
You’re still a-clingin’ to the tree of life, but soon you’ll be cut off before you get ripe.
When I was a senior at Norman High School, in 1974, I remember happily buying the new Seals & Crofts album, then getting really angry at the lyrics to the cover song.
It was the year after the Supreme Court ruled on Roe v. Wade, five years after Woodstock’s “sex, drugs and rock’n’roll”, and six years after Pope Paul VI released his encyclical Humanae Vitae (Of Human Life).
I was a heathen and a virgin.
The LAST thing I wanted was some “anti-abortion” musicians moralizing their way into my bedroom.
Turns out, nobody else did either.
We were Baby Boomers, and it was all about us, not some unborn child.
Sadly, that sweet song could do precious little to hold back the abortion tsunami.
So now, 42 years after Roe v Wade, these are the *facts:
- more than 77 million babies have been aborted in America
- so far this year, 646,283 babies have been aborted in the land of free and the home of the brave
- 193,941 of these babies were aborted by Planned Parenthood, America’s biggest abortionist
- Recently, Planned Parenthood managers were caught sipping wine and talking about “crushing above and below” so organs from aborted babies could be harvested and sold
- Planned Parenthood apologized for a manager’s “tone”
- The Senate fell three votes short of defunding Planned Parenthood
Lord Have Mercy
All of this has made me ask, Dear Lord, how did we get to this point?
I never knew radio great Paul Harvey, but sometimes I can hear his voice.
I always wanted to do great things, which is probably why I started out as a reporter.
I had a good nose for news and was pretty good at finding the truth.
But, as it turns out, I was also blind as a bat at times, blinded by my ego, and nowhere near greatness.
In 1992-1993, I was a new consultant in Dallas with “the largest privately owned P.R. firm in the world.”
My biggest client, a real estate giant, had asked us to find a hotshot speaker for their Annual Meeting.
I wanted General Norman Schwarzkopf, one of the great military giants of the 20th century, and the Ultimate Alpha Male.
I just knew my real estate Big Dog clients would LOVE hanging out with Stormin’ Norman.
But my choice was not astute.
My boss, however, was astute, and recommended former long-time Reagan aide Michael Deaver.
This did not sit well with me.
The Missus and I need a big house so we both can have our own space.
And in the land of semi-retirement, you watch your money pretty closely.
So, of course, we just bought a little camper van.
In our defense, it’s not really a camper van.
Certainly not like the big one that two families squished into 20 years ago to tour all of New Zealand.
That one had eight berths and a stove and fridge and pooper and shower.
That kind if serious camper van now rents for about $400 per day.
So, when you throw in insurance, diesel and campground fees, etc, it costs about $9,000 to get our of your driveway.
Which poses a dilemma.
How do you quityerbitchin’ about living in the most beautiful country in the world yet never actually seeing any of it?
The answer came last week from above. Or at least the internets.
I was looking for a cheap car, using my super-braniac search engine words “moving to Australia.”
There, among all the actual cars, popped up the cutest little camper van you ever saw.
I mean, it’s called a Mazda Bongo Friendee.
How could that not be a thing of happy destiny?
… Oh, we don’t know, there are so many things to choose from.
Probably the best thing about torrential rains is when the Missus dispatches the blog to our house’s slick metal roof, at night, when it is pitch freaking black, to clear out the gutters, because her bat-like sensors just KNOW they are clogged.
No, actually, the best part is when the Missus — being all kinds of helpful, as the blog was risking life and limb on the slick metal roof, at night, in a winter downpour — hits me right between the eyes with a 10,000-candlepower spotlight.
Because when you are soaking wet, and crouching on the very edge of the slick metal roof, at night, scooping crap out of the gutter by hand, you really want to be blinded by the light.
And get bonus points for retinal detachments and vertigo.
Yes, all were just awesome.
But, in retrospect, the best thing was — when the blog had shed his soaking wet blue jeans and goose-down puffer jacket, and was just about to climb into a hot bathtub — hearing a siren shriek from the basement.
One with a Singaporean accent; able to penetrate 12-inches of reinforced concrete and/or my forehead.
A siren song that meant that the basement was flooding, and that having a soggy, frostbitten butt was the very least of the blog’s worries.
Don’t mind my 26-year-old musician son as he grumpily digs through the mall trash bin.
He is not foraging for food, like many starving musicians.
He is looking for the plastic packaging that he shredded about 30 minutes ago to get to his new headphones.
Because we have just had the following Father-Son chat at the mall coffee shop, after Junior strolled up holding new headphones .
Dad: “Heh, I bought some of those headphones. The look cool, but they really suck.”
Grumpy Son: “They so do!”
Dad: “Take them back. Just put them inside the packaging, and take them back.”
Grumpy Son: “I threw it away.”
Dad: <Rolling eyes> “Seriously? If I had a dollar for every time we have had this conversation about packaging. And receipts…”