Friday, November 1, 2013

November 1: So Damn Dizzy, Sick Kids, Fairy Tale fo All Saints

After I came out of the place where the mummies were, I had to go to the bathroom.  I sort of had diarrhea, if you want to know the truth.  I didn't mind the diarrhea part too much, but something else happened.  When I was coming out of the can, right before I got to the door, I sort of passed out.  I was lucky, though.  I mean I could've killed myself when I hit the floor, but all I did was sort of land on my side.  It was a funny thing, though.  I felt better after I passed out.  I really did.  My arm sort of hurt, from where I fell, but I didn't feel so damn dizzy any more.

Holden is one sick puppy by this time in the book.  He's probably got pneumonia.  He hasn't eaten anything substantial for a couple of days, and he's gotten really drunk at least once.  That doesn't even count the two or three packs of cigarettes he's smoked.  And he's on the verge of a nervous breakdown.  He's, to put it mildly, a hot mess.

The day after Halloween.  My daughter woke up complaining of a sore throat.  My wife took her to the doctor.  She has strep.  My son came home from school with a case of conjunctivitis.  Obviously, my plans for today have changed drastically.  My daughter is no longer going to a hair appointment or her dance lesson or an overnight birthday party.  My son is longer spending the night at his grandma's house.  Currently, I'm waiting for a phone call from my wife to go pick up prescriptions for my kids.  Like Holden, they are both hot messes right now.  They'll be better by tomorrow, thank goodness.

I'm in my office at the university at the moment.  It's quiet here.  Most people (faculty/staff/students) don't come to campus on Fridays.  I can usually get a lot of work done, including getting my blogging done.  I like my Friday afternoons.  No interruptions.  No distractions.  And it's the first day of November.  All Saints Day.  Halloween is a memory, and Thanksgiving and Christmas are fast approaching.  The year is quickly drawing to a close.  It hasn't been the greatest year of my life, but it hasn't been the worst, either.  It certainly could have gone a whole lot better.

Once upon a time, a traveling bard named Barney came to a little town called Hamlet.  Hamlet was so little it consisted of only three cottages.  In one cottage lived the Hamlet's baker.  In the second cottage lived the blacksmith.  In the third lived the sheriff.

Barney took out his mandolin, put his hat on the ground, and started to play and sing.

The baker, blacksmith, and sheriff came out of their homes to listen to Barney.  Barney sang songs about love and betrayal and death.  He even sang a few Lady Gaga tunes.  When he was done singing, he waited for Hamlet's residents to throw some money into his hat.  The three men didn't move.

"What's wrong with you?" Barney finally asked.  "Didn't you like my music?"

The three men nodded slowly.

"Then why don't you put some money in my cap to show your appreciation?"  Barney said.

The sheriff said, "Well, I was just wondering if you had a permit to put on a show in the town square."

The baker said, "I didn't know if you liked cinnamon rolls, which I just took out of my stove."

The blacksmith said, "And you don't have a horse."

Barney shook his head.  "I don't have a permit.  I'm allergic to cinnamon.  And I sold my horse two villages ago."

The sheriff said, "Well, then, you're going to have to move along, son."

"Don't I get anything for my performance today?"  Barney said.

The baker stepped forward and handed him two dead bugs.

"What are these?" Barney said.

"I found them on my windowsill," the baker said.

"Why would you give me two dead insects?" Barney said.

"We're trying to solve an argument," the blacksmith said.

"What's the argument?" Barney said.

"We want to know if these are two bees or not two bees," the sheriff said.

Moral of the story:  never stop in a town named Hamlet.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

That is the question

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