I had the strangest dream...it was me, Pattie, President Obama, Israeli PM Benjamin Netanyahu and deceased PLO leader Yasser Arafat were in this warehouse office. Pattie and Obama stayed in the office to talk about something while the rest of us went out into the warehouse and shot each other with squirt guns.

I have a new favorite flavor. And that flavor is Cucumber with Chile.



They're actually pretty spicy -- and I like stuff spicy -- but also very refreshing. Pattie might like it without the chile, except they don't make them.

So yeah. Remember back in, what, March? when I was waiting on a furnace? Well, they called yesterday and said they were finally gonna install it today.

If you're wonering what my mom was wondering, yes, it's far too warm out to run the furnace. Our air conditioner is tied in, so one no worky, both no worky.

Anywho.

So they call today and say they'll install it tomorrow instead. Color me periwinkle. Now mind you, there's a gottverdammt furnace sitting on our back porch, in cardboard, and it really looks like it could rain any time. And they're waiting until tomorrow.

Landlord? More like scumlord.

EDIT: They did come today, but at 2pm instead of 10am like they were supposed to. I'm a bit surprised they showed up at all...

Once upon a time, Bob Costas and Fred Phelps were skinny-dipping together just off Fisherman's Wharf. They were splashing about gaily, minding their own business, when suddenly the corpse of James Garfield rammed his jetski into Bob Costas' spleen. As the dead President had no insurance, Fred decided to seek help from Victor Kiriakis, who just happened to have an extra spleen lying about. Organ in hand, Fred returned to the wharf to find Michael Dorn looking confused. Fred quickly explained the difference between "wharf" and "Worf", then entered the water and found Bob Costas irritable but still doing well. Fred fed Bob the spleen, which restored him to full health.

From their table on the wharf, Mike Tyson and Danny Ainge looked up from their lunch to watch the commotion. "That bites", Mike said, to which Danny readily agreed.

Whiskey tango foxtrot, over.

At least it makes the bocor's job easier. But still, why not a nice picture or something? It's a little vial full of water vapor and carbon dioxide, it could spring a leak (the word for which, coincidentally, is bocor in Indonesian) and you'd be none the wiser. I mean, what do you do, sniff it if they kick the bucket?

I don't get heartburn. I don't get acid reflux. I don't get sour stomach. I can eat or drink anything I want, whenever I want, and it doesn't bother me.

And about once or twice a year, regardless of what I've eaten or drank -- last food was Arby's roast beef 5ish, drank my last pop 7ish -- I channel Hendrix and wake myself up choking on stomach acid. If there's a merciful God in heaven, he let Jimi stay asleep for his fatal aspiration. I'd almost consider taking something for it, but it's so infrequent.

And now that I've coughed it all up and eaten a few Tums -- IN THAT ORDER -- I'm fine. Pissed off at the world, but fine. See you in six months to a year.

...just hope it isn't terminal.

Months without sleep. No wonder it's fatal. Makes BSE look like fun by comparison.

One must wonder, though...what if a sufferer of fatal familial insomnia were to contract African sleeping sickness?

---

And no, I lied, I'm not done playing with my journal yet. Deal with it.

=P

Sometimes I wish I were a fly on the wall. Then I remember they eat their own vomit, and wish I had a hidden camera instead.

The background: My mother is a widow, dad died in 1990. His birthday was Sept. 4, so this time of year is hard on mom anyways.

Not even two years ago, her cousin Becky died, leaving her husband Claude behind.

The setup: On Saturday, my aunt Joan (mom's sister) died. Mom's the youngest of eight that lived to adulthood, and Joan was 21 years older and in deteriorating health, so it wasn't a surprise.

The bomb: Today at the funeral, my mom walks up to a mixed group, whereupon her sister-in-law (Do I have to call her my aunt?) says "Hey, you're single!"

Mom groans and says "Why, who are you thinking of setting me up with?"

"Claude."

Allow me to remind the audience that we do not, in fact, live in Kentucky.

Mom's response: "But that's Becky's husband!"

"Yeah, but he's single now."

Apparently the Bible was also pressed into service -- and even that's a botch-job, I've seen the verse in question and it refers to the brother-in-law taking in the widow, not the cousin-in-law. Not to mention it's sandwiched somewhere in between "God hates fags," "God hates shrimp," "Sacrificing a bull makes a pleasing odor unto the Lord," "Make sure you're the right distance from the city walls before digging a hole for your excrement," and "If two men are fighting, and the wife of one grabs the other's testicles, you are to cut off her hand" in the wide world of "outdated stuff no Christian should take as part of the new agreement with God." The woman did Jerry Falwell proud today.

Some of my favorite sayings to commemorate my opinion of the woman:

"Did her parents have any children that lived?"
"She's one shy of a six-pack."
"The wheel is spinning, but the hamster is dead."