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September 15, 2002 ho-hum My neck was stiff and painful, like I had spent the previous day at a Cunnilingus Festival.  And my nap was unrefreshing.  I was groggy and off balance.  But I went into the kitchen where I heated some red beans and rice and arranged canned pineapple rings on a plate to look like the Olympic symbol.  The Olympic symbol with mayonnaise and cheese on it. The phone rang.  It was my daughter telling me about her week at school.  School officials had sent her friend to a Grief Counselor because the teen had broken a nail that had taken her "a really, really long time to grow."  I ate and listened in silence. After we spoke, I turned on the television and watched all of Sixty Minutes in only thirty.  Time really does accelerate with age.  The featured story was about sexual abuse against Alzheimer's patients in nursing homes.  Tick, tick, tick, tick...  "We call tonight's story 'Fuck'em and Forget'em.'" I changed channels and watched a home decorating show in which the hostess gushed that her designer had "transformed this ho-hum bedroom into a romantic medieval boudoir."  Ah, yes.  There's nothing quite so romantic as a lice-infested pile of straw for bedding a bubonic wench who, as luck would have it, turns out to be a succubus.

©  2002 by the beastmaster