Sick of My Cold?
There is a certain bit of linguistic humor in the sentence with which I had planned to begin this entry. At least I hope there is, or else I’ve just made a big deal out of nothing. I was going to write, "I’m sick of my cold!" When thinking it, there didn’t seem to be anything amusing about that statement. But when I typed it and looked at it on screen, I started to chuckle. Of course I am sick of my cold. What else would I be sick of?
And now, because of this revelation, let’s focus on something else. The complainer in me has been overruled by the fellow who is amused by the silly things that I write sometimes. Let’s focus on, say, socks.
Socks are good.
Socks are neat.
Socks can win in the heat.
But Socks can’t win, in the cold.
Everyone in New York City is a big hemmorhoid-ridden, needs-to-be wiped, wider than the Lincoln Tunnel asshole!
Do you like my song? Do you, like me, wish that, as in that Billy Joel song "Miami 2017", that they would sink Manhattan out at sea? Of course, in the song they send a carrier out from Norfolk and pick the Yankees up for free. That part wouldn’t be necessary. Leave those fuckers on the island to drown.
Of course, fuckin’ Jeter would probably gain superpowers the moment he first slipped into the polluted waters of the Hudson and he’d be able to fly and rescue the rest of them. Fuckin’ Jeter.
This entry has been brought to you by the letters F and U and the number 4.