Dr. Turkenstein, I presume?
I’m really starting to hate Sundays. It’s like someone docks a Waste Management truck to my office window and offloads a metric ton of moldy corn dogs, crushed Grain Belt cans and elephant shit from the Iowa GOP caucuses into my iMac.
I clocked in at 7 a.m., just in time for the first lap of the men’s World Cup opener in Pilsen, and I didn’t really find the bottom of the VeloPile until about 4 p.m. Pee-yew. There’s more to be done, of course, but it never found its way to me and thus has become someone else’s problem.
Doesn’t help that I’ve somehow managed to throw out my back again, which adds personal injury to professional insult. Sending two Tylenol Extra Strength tabs after that old refrigerator-delivery injury was like pitting a Boston cream pie against Rosie O’Donnell, without the potentially funny bits.
Happily, as I do my part to help smash the State through Occupy Office Chair I’ve gotten some top-notch attention from Dr. Turkenstein, though I note he is prone to wistful window-gazing. And no black-glove coppers have pepper-sprayed me yet, so I’ve got that going for me.
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