Ever been in the beginning stages of a long highway drive when Mr. Stomach and Senator Bowel request an emergency meeting with your brain regarding an "exit strategy?" You're all... "Sorry, the needs of Mr. Stomach and the Senator are important, and certainly valid, but we are unable to realistically answer their call at this time."
It was a long, painful, nerve-wracking ten mile drive last night.
It was the closest I've ever, ever, come to shitting my pants. It was scary.
I was tensing and relaxing every muscle from my thighs to my shoulders, and the sounds I was making were reminiscent of thirties blues, Godzilla movies, and frenzied begging to a God I don't believe in.
I made it home.
18 hours later, I'm still rehydrating myself, and for some reason, I have a ravenous hunger today. Oh well.
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Senator Kennedy has a brain tumor. Oh, now, c'mon America, you knew the Kennedy curse was gonna get him. Good thing he didn't drink himself to death.
But seriously, the guy's head is so fucking big that his life expectancy has to be better than most, if not all brain cancer patients in recorded history. That tumor has a lot of work on it's hands. If I had to pick a tumor to feel sorry for, it'd be Senator Kennedy's.
At least when he dies, the government will fund cancer research better, and my life will be less disrupted by people doing 5k runs.
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I've decided not to travel this weekend. The bookings look shady, and I have some projects at the apartment that need a man's touch. That being said and known, I'm still gonna give it a shot.
Fresh popcorn!-BK
1 comment:
Mary Jo Kopechne.
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