Sorry, all youse few but important readers (quality over quantity, I always say, when I can't obtain much quantity), but my brain is still too flu-ravaged to be of much use. It's about all I can do to churn out the hackery, er, "value-added content" I spew for a living, let alone blog.
The worst has been over for a while, but the fog has not quite lifted. Suffice to say that, shit, goddamn, that was a muthafuckin flu jam. A tearing-the-roof-off-the-sucka virus, to be sure. And you know how it goes -- flu your mind, and your ass will follow. That is, if by "follow" you mean "shiver under a pile of blankets and watch weird TV shows while feeling sorry for oneself due to one's solitary existence in a world in which chicken soup does not purchase or heat up itself and in which one lacked the prescience to be properly stocked up on such favorite flu-time meals as ibuprofen and Sprite -- and then the diarrhea kicked in."
Annnyway ... watch weird TV I did. Specifically, about 20 episodes of "Red Dwarf" in Divx format, as well as a few Terrence McKenna lectures, because apparently I didn't feel disconnected from reality enough. But what really warped my gray matter was "Breaking Bad" on AMC. I only caught a couple of those, but they had a weird persistence, in that, in my fever state, I kept sort of hallucinating that I was Bryan Cranston's character, dying of cancer, cooking meth, and trying to work out about a million nonsensical chemistry formulas. I think I spent about two solid days obsessively mulling over an endless series of numbers and symbols that made no sense whatsoever. Ecch. So how the hell was I supposed to blog?
My brain is still far from what passes for normal. Here's an example. Last night I dreamed that I went back in time and attended a meeting of our old hippie-dumbshit club at NIU in the late 1980s, "The John Lennon Society," for the specific purpose of delivering warnings from the future, and two of my dude friends -- who shall remain nameless -- were sitting cross-legged on the floor, without any pants on, and they both had pussies, big gaping gleaming fur-capped vaginas. Which didn't seem to bug them or anyone else, so I shrugged and went on with giving all the hippie dipshits the lowdown about 2008.
IN OTHER NEWS: All video games and video game machinery should be seized by the government, wadded up in a giant bag made of cactus spines, broken wine bottles, and shredded paint cans, and rammed, repeatedly and forcefully, up my upstairs neighbors' unlubricated rectums. For a hundred years, continuously.
PUPPY CHASER:
Harry Nilsson - The Puppy Song
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