And... They're Off!

Know anyone in their 30s? Do they run? Like, not to get anywhere, but for fun? Of course they do. Running seems to be the thing to do among people in my age bracket. Strike that. It seems to be the thing to do among everyone in my age bracket. Once people reach their 30s, in this country anyway, they run. Not from anything or to anywhere, physically speaking. Metaphorically, however, perhaps they run to get away from middle age, or to get back to their youth, or a combination of the two, or just one of those because really they’re the same thing. Whatever the reason, people run. Like a bunch of damn Forrest Gumps.

Once we cross the threshold into 30, a starter’s pistol goes off in our heads. I guess the thinking is, if you’re able to travel 13 miles in under half an hour, then you’re moving too fast. Slow down. Take in the sights. Breathe the fresh air. Feel the cramps. Pin a number to your shirt as if you’ve been tagged by the government.

Running is good for us. It clears the mind, clears the arteries, reduces excess weight and builds up endurance. And while running may be harder on the nipples than driving a car, it’s also good for the environment. Of course, nobody trades in their car for a pair of running shoes. It’s not typically done as a means of transport. I’ve yet to see someone run to the grocery store and then run home with a week’s worth of food in their arms. Runners tend to only move in circles. Or at least have cars waiting for them at the finish line. But even if they’re still destroying the environment, at least runners enjoy longer lives in the muck and the mire.

Our 30s are when we start to feel the years catching up to us. That’s why we’re dumbfounded when professional athletes that age manage to not puke on themselves after shooting a pair of particularly grueling free throws. People in their 50s and 60s, however, are quick to scoff at the notion of a 30-something feeling old. “You don’t know what it feels like to be old,” they mumble through the drool. But if the geezers could somehow remember their lives 20 years prior, they’d recall that their bodies started wearing down long before diapers became necessary again.

My hunch is that people don’t take up running to learn how to appreciate cramps or to aid the environment. Health plays a factor, as we all get more health conscious as the years tick by, but while the driving force certainly has to do with the movement of a clock, it’s our hope to make it turn backwards as opposed to our concern over triglyceride levels as it ticks forward.

Wanting to feel like we can still swim laps all day, outrun our kids or dunk a basketball. To stop compiling injuries to our necks, backs, arms and legs that were brought on by sleeping on them funny. To, as I said earlier, recapture our youth. That’s my hunch. At least it was.

Now I tend to think we just get braver once we hit our 30s. We become more willing to stare down our fears, to try things we weren’t willing to try before. At this point people usually know what they’re capable of, what their limitations are, but they’re also more confident. A lot of people have secured a career, gotten married, bought a house and had kids before saying goodbye to their 30s. That’s a lot to be confident for. Hell, raising kids who know not to hold their pet hamster out the window of a moving car is reason enough to give a person confidence.

Sure, it means we have a lot more to lose than we did in our 20s, but we understand the risks better too. We look to go after what stirs the fire inside us. Plus, there’s not much we should be afraid of trying. And there isn't.

Good luck, Sweetie. And look out, Everest.

Enough With Your Ambition

I don’t know how other people do it. By ‘it’ I mean anything. I don’t know how other people do anything.

I’m always impressed whenever anyone achieves the slightest of accomplishments. Like the other day when my daughter put together a 24 piece puzzle by herself. A modest achievement given her age and the fact that this wasn’t the first time she had worked on it. Nevertheless, I was immediately filled with pride over her obvious intelligence, and then quickly filled with shame when I remembered it took me twice as long to put it together the day before and I had to use a piece from a different puzzle in order to finish it.

My awe doesn’t stop at my kids, though. I find I’m most impressed by what professional athletes my age can do. Actually, if they’re my age I’m impressed they can do anything at all. Most professional athletes, no matter what the sport, are younger than I am. If you’re involved in a professional sport at my age and are able to remain upright for more than 15 consecutive minutes, you’re most likely a coach.

Every year around this time, I find myself particularly admiring the Super Bowl-winning quarterback, who in most seasons hasn’t reached his mid-30s or any part of his 30s, for leading a team through the duration of a grueling football season and then to the championship title. Sadly, though, that’s not so much impressive as it is the standard in professional football. The reality is that on those rare occasions when the Super Bowl-winning quarterback is in his mid-30s, everyone else really admires him for the simple fact that he can run 20 yards without vomiting all over his jersey.

But most non-professional athletes are wowed by rare athletic talents. What lazy slob wouldn’t be? I somehow manage to get blown over by Super Bowl winners, tiny puzzle assemblers and everyone in between. My jaw tends to drop when I hear of someone buying a house, earning a managerial job, writing a book, writing a screenplay, earning a Best Actor nomination, climbing Mt. Everest, or even just getting to Mt. Everest. I used to think doing any of those things is impressive at 25, but now I think they’re all pretty remarkable at 45.

I just never feel like I’m old enough, or talented enough, to pull off things the way others do who are my age or younger. I know one day when I’m strolling through the local farmer’s market while weighing the pros and cons of a cane compared to a scooter, I’ll mutter to myself, “How can that guy possibly run a fruit stand, he’s only 52 years old?”

A couple of psychological factors may be at play here. As one possibility, it seems likely that I use my incomprehension over others’ accomplishments as a way to justify my unimpressive, sloth-like behavior. Another factor might be… uh… no, I think that’s pretty much the answer (see, I can’t even come up with another reason).

There are those rare occasions when I surprise myself with what I can do. Like the time I proved not only how capable, but also how manly I am by fixing the gutter. Of course the only reason I had to fix the gutter is because I first proved how womanly I am by running over it with my car.

Even though trillions of people have done it before me, I still occasionally marvel at how I’m helping to raise two kids. Then again it’s too early to gauge how good of a job I’m doing. They’re still too young to get arrested or disappoint me with all of their major life decisions (although they are starting to disappoint me with their musical choices).

I can bowl over 200. Not in real life, but on Nintendo Wii. Is that something?

Perhaps I should give it a shot at an actual bowling alley. Or try to earn a Best Actor nomination. Or travel to Mt. Everest. I’m not climbing the damn thing; I’m in my mid-30s for crying out loud. You know how many jerseys I’d go through?

Santa vs. Santa Monica

“All rise. The honorable Henry T. Larimore presiding.”

Judge Larimore enters courtroom and sits behind bench.

“You may be seated. The court will now hear the case of Dwayne Fairborn vs. the city of Santa Monica, California. It says hear that Mr. Fairborn performed the duties of Santa Claus in the city’s annual Thanksgiving Day parade, but has yet to receive payment for the duties performed, is that correct?”

“Yes, your honor. The defense is arguing that my client didn’t live up to the terms of their agreement in performing his tasks. We plan to show that indeed he did and deserves to be paid the agreed upon amount, as well as the costs necessary to cover his medical expenses, which arose as a result of the deplorable working conditions unresolved by the city. ”

“It also says here that representing the city is the parade organizer, Mrs. Tulula Robinson. Is that correct?”

“Yes, your honor. My client, Mrs. Robinson, works for the city’s Chamber of Commerce and also sits on the tourism board. She was in charge of scheduling the parade and hiring the staff and event performers, including Mr. Fairborn.”

“Very well. The prosecution may begin its case by calling its first witness.”

“Thank you, your honor. We call Mr. Fairborn to the stand and, per his wishes, ask that the court refer to him as St. Nick.”

“Denied.”

“Alrighty.”

Mr. Fairborn takes the stand.

“Mr. Fairborn, you appeared in the Santa Monica Thanksgiving Day parade as Santa Claus on the morning of November 22^nd, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And afterwards you sat in the library for two hours so children could tell you… excuse me… tell whom they thought was Santa Claus what they wanted for Christmas, correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“When the city agreed to hire you to perform these duties, when did they say you would be paid for these services?”

“On the 22^nd. As soon as the last kid was out of line, in fact.”

“And nearly a month later, have you been paid for your work on the 22^nd?”

“No.”

“The prosecution would also like to point out that in addition to not getting paid, Mr. Claus, sorry, Mr. Fairborn, was subjected to horrible working conditions and now suffers from a medical condition as a result of said conditions. For starters, the driver assigned to pick up my client from the airport was late and didn’t have an adequate amount of gas to complete the trip, which ultimately made him late to the parade. To rectify being stranded on the side of the road, my client was forced to push the car half a mile to the nearest gas station.

“Ironically, Mr. Fairborn would have been better off being dozens of miles from a gas station that day because the float he was required to sit on was not up to code and actually caught fire during the parade. In addition, at no time did he receive any breaks, even to clean himself up after a child threw up on him. If that wasn’t enough, one of the gentlemen on parole hired to play an elf urinated behind Santa’s, sorry, Mr. Fairborn’s chair while the children were waiting in line to speak to him.

“Perhaps the most humiliating moment for my client came when one of the reindeer used for the parade knocked him to the ground and began… uh… for lack of a better term… humping him behind the float. Finally, while my client did not get to take any breaks, the city was kind enough to grant him a complimentary lunch. Unfortunately, the medical condition I referred to earlier came about due to the turkey sandwich supplied by Mrs. Robinson. It seems the turkey was quite rancid and now my client has herpes.

“You do testify that this was your experience on the 22^nd, correct Mr. Fairborn?”

“Yes, all of that is correct.”

“That’s all from the prosecution, your honor.”

“Would the defense like to cross-examine this witness?”

“Yes, thank you, your honor. Mr. Fairborn, is it true that the Santa Monica police were called and upon arriving on the scene they administered a blood alcohol test on you?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“And is it also true that your blood alcohol level registered at nearly three times the legal driving limit?”

“I like to add a little rum to my eggnog.”

“I’m sure you do. Could that explain why you mistakenly remember a child throwing up on you when in fact it was your own dog that vomited on you?”

“I always let Buster sip on my eggnog. He loves it more than I do.”

“Perhaps your inebriated state also kept you from remembering that it was Buster clad in foam reindeer ears that humped you behind the float. The defense would like to point out to the court that Mrs. Robinson told Mr. Fairborn that he could not bring his dog with him on the day of the parade, but he chose to ignore that part of their agreement. This ultimately makes Mr. Fairborn responsible for the vomit ending up on his suit and the assault he withstood from his dog.

“We’d also like to point out that while the float did catch fire, it met all the necessary safety standards and Mr. Fairborn was also directly responsible for it going up in flames. The prosecution failed to mention that its client smoked throughout the parade, in direct conflict to the clearly visible “No Smoking” sign on his and all of the floats. If he wished for it to remain flame free, he should have considered not dropping his lit cigarette butts on the floor of the sled.”

“I guess I should have used my empty eggnog glass to put out my cigarettes.”

“Was it ever empty, Mr. Fairborn?”

“Ha! Good point. I guess not.”

“Your honor, at this point we’d like to submit the video taken of the day’s events to show that in addition to the vomit, the humping and the fire, Mr. Fairborn was also directly responsible for the urine behind his chair. The prosecution grossly misstated the situation, as the man in the elf costume was not on parole, he is Mrs. Robinson’s husband, Mr. Robinson. And the urine wasn’t his, it was urine belonging to Mr. Fairborn that leaked out of the bag he had taped to his leg as part of the amateur catheter he fashioned to himself.

“Unfortunately we cannot dispute the fact that the driver hired to pick up Mr. Fairborn at the airport was a little late and his car did run out of gas. But the driver pushed the car himself to the gas station. Mr. Fairborn probably remembers trying to fruitlessly push the car as it was parked at the station, having gas pumped into it. I feel I should mention that he did this while dressed in his full Santa costume, creating quite the scene for the other patrons. The driver in fact still managed to drop his already-inebriated passenger at the hotel two hours before Mr. Fairborn was supposed to arrive at the starting point of the parade route. It turns out Mr. Fairborn later failed to catch the cab from the hotel that was sent to take him to the parade and that’s why he was late.

“In closing, the city does not intend to pay Mr. Fairborn for his performance because of the gross violations of the work agreement, and it has no intention of paying for his medical bills either. When the front desk of the hotel called Mr. Fairborn’s room to let him know he had a cab waiting for him, roughly an hour and a half after he arrived, they reported hearing what sounded like prostitutes in his room. The clerk who called said he heard at least two female voices say, ‘Thanks for the hour,’ ‘That’s not my underwear,’ and ‘No, I can’t take a check, I’m a prostitute.’

“So I think the origin of your venereal disease is pretty clear, seeing as how you can’t get herpes from a turkey sandwich, can you Mr. Fairborn?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“The defense rests.”

The Regurgitation Goes 'Round and 'Round, 'Round and 'Round

Everyone in my house is throwing up. Everyone. My son, my daughter, my dog, my… well… that’s it. Almost everyone. Well… three out of the five of us are throwing up. That’s not everyone or even almost everyone, but it is 60%, which is a lot. A little more than half, I guess. So technically a majority of the people in my house are throwing up.

No, that’s not true either. Exactly half of the people in the house are throwing up. But a majority of those who reside in the dwelling. The dependents. Yeah, there we go. Wait, no. I can’t claim the dog as a dependent. Whatever. Three out of the five beings that sleep in the house are throwing up. For now.

Seeing, smelling, hearing or even talking about vomit nearly makes my wife throw up, so she may be next. Then again, worrying that I’ll soon be throwing up is enough to actually make me throw up before I ever contract anything. I don’t like throwing up. My wife doesn’t like other people’s throw up. We’re a sad pair, really.

Apparently something’s going around. Isn’t that always the case? If anyone ever vomits for reasons other than food or alcohol poisoning, it’s because something is going around. And that seems to be the case now. I guess it will always be the case too because if “something is going around” anytime someone vomits then it must not originate anywhere. No one starts the vomiting cycle; it just keeps spinning.

So how do we stop it? I’m afraid we don’t. I mean, we probably could, but I’m afraid it won’t happen. Literally afraid. Like I said, I don’t like throwing up. I’ve heard I’m not alone in this. What’s to like? The lurching, the awful taste, the awfuler smell, the awfulest bile left in your mouth afterwards, the sound of it hitting the toilet water or a trashcan or the floor of the car or whatever. The sinking feeling that that wasn’t the last of it. I’m getting nauseous just writing about it.

The worst part is knowing there’s no escaping it. If someone at work is sick, you and the rest of the office can berate them until they go home. You just tell them over and over again what a horrible person they are for exposing everyone else to it. You remind them how unimportant their work actually is and how out of touch with reality they are for thinking anyone will even notice if their duties are left undone for the next two weeks. But if you live with a person who has it and your main residence happens to be your only residence, then your days are numbered.

I guess I could starve myself in anticipation of the vomiting and hope that there’s nothing in my stomach to come back on me. But I think we all know that if you’re going to wretch, you’re going to wretch. Dry heaving won’t improve the situation much. Maybe I could only eat food that has a chance of tasting good coming up. Not sure what that would be, though. I don’t think that I’ve thrown up anything that tasted good on the way out. Oooh, that must mean I should eat things I’ve never eaten before, like liver and caviar. That might taste… o… k… when I throw… no, that can’t possibly be right. Screw it.

Whatever happens happens. Wish me well through the process and I’ll do the same for you when it’s your turn. Tick… tick… tick.

Where Was My Pandering?

This past election season is just that: past. So I hate to dredge it up again, especially since I was so looking forward to it finally being over, but something really stood out from the past year’s election cycle other than the billions of dollars spent campaigning. To me it was the way percentages were used to describe so much of the population. Not the percentage in favor of Obama or Romney, or the percentage of women likely to vote one way compared to the percentage of Hispanics likely to vote the other way. We get those statistics every voting year. I’m talking about the way that percentages were used in place of words to describe who we are and how we live our lives.

The 1%, the 99%, the 47%, etc…

Even though mathematically speaking I have to be in there somewhere, I don’t feel like anybody was talking about me when they threw these figures around. I don’t feel like pundits are really speaking about me when they talk about white males, even though that’s what I am. I don’t feel addressed when they narrow it down to my specific age rage or income level or family size or really any demographic yet to be discussed during a typical election year.

That’s probably because I’m of a generation where we all feel like our specific wants and needs should be catered to personally. Or because I and the rest of my peers know that it’s lazy to think that people of the same race, age, family size and income level are going to necessarily think the same. (Lazy like the way I say my entire generation thinks that its needs should be catered to personally.  See what I did there? J)

Selfish or unselfish as my reasons may be, I don’t care. I only care about how it would feel to be personally pandered to in the press. I also wonder what kind of percentages would have to be used before I felt the pandering. Weirdly specific ones, no doubt.

“With the presidential race appearing so close in the polls, both candidates know that in the coming months they’ll need to gain a foothold among…

“The 13% who routinely injure themselves sleeping.”
“The 37% who have physically accosted someone for using the middle stall in a public restroom. (You expect me to use one right next to you, jackass?!)”
“The 89% that can’t believe there are people still not on Facebook.”
“The 20% of that 89% who hate everyone on Facebook.”
“The 4% that doesn’t think college athletes should be forced to play games that start at 9 p.m. or later because that’s too late for them to stay up.”
“The 45% that have texted at least three photos of their genitals.”
“The 10% of men who can’t grow a mustache quite as well as the rest of their beard.”
“The 16% who, during a story, ask questions that aren’t pertinent to the story.”
“The 27% who, despite their best efforts, are terrible at hiding the fact that they can’t remember your name.”
“The 12% who apply sunscreen just to check the mail.”
“The 42% who believe Apple wants to see the end of all human-to-human contact and convince us to use our electronic devices to fill the emotional, and probably even sexual, gaps in our lives.”
“The 2% who don’t play fantasy sports but still listen to fantasy sports-related podcasts.”
“The 6% who are confused by the notion that using our phones to type somehow makes our lives simpler and more convenient.”
“The 72% who’ve used the baggy shirt of a stranger in the grocery store to wipe off a particularly stubborn booger from their finger.”

Actually, I think I do know what it would feel like if some of these percentages became the target audience of our candidates. It would feel awesome because then I would know I was being talked to directly.

Hail to the Unlucky Bastard

Well, this is it. Today is the day. After a year of campaigning, constantly traveling, endless debating on one side of the aisle to ultimately pare down the nominee, both parties spending millions of dollars, answering millions of interviewers’ questions, shaking millions of hands, hosting conventions, more debating, and finding new ways to look foolish on the internet (which isn’t easy to do at this point), by the end of today one man will earn what has got to be the absolute worst job on the planet – President of the United States.

I really can’t fathom why anyone would want the job at this point, and it’s obvious by looking at those who do campaign for it that most normal people don’t want it. In the last few years, we’ve been treated to presidential hopefuls who father children with a mistress while their wife is dying from cancer, address campaign supporters by opening a speech with “Awww, shuckey duckey!” and express their desire to colonize the moon. These people genuinely believe that we want them to represent us. At least until they have no choice but to accept that we don’t.

And no wonder the average citizen isn’t interested in the job. What’s the upside? The constant criticism? The twisting of your words on every media station that has ever devoted two minutes to talking about politics? The threats? Good Lord, how many jobs do you know that involve the holder of that job having to accept the fact that he or she will receive regular death threats? So far it has nearly a 10% assassination rate. Ten percent! ‘Death row inmate’ doesn’t have a 10% kill rate.

And have you ever noticed the horrible aging? If you are president, you can count on aging faster than the guy who picked the wrong cup at the end of Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade. It’s probably because they know their job comes with a 10% assassination rate.

Not to mention the number of things you’re considered responsible for is fairly overwhelming: jobs, the economy, taxes, the price of gas, the price of homes, the price of milk, the price of Yankees tickets, the nation’s security, immigration, the war on drugs, the war on women, the war on Christmas, actual war, health care, birth control, gun control, no gun control, the deficit, the debt, imports, exports, the Cubs sucking every year, the quality of our education, China owning us in six months, other countries getting nuclear weapons, the fact that parts of Canada still speak French, the environment, federal disaster relief, children getting fat, gays getting married, cows getting mad, birds and pigs getting the flu, your vice president going on TV, affirmative action, equal pay for men and women, what you have stuck in your teeth, what you might have said near a live microphone, how many times your administration says “God,” and if your flag pin is big enough.

 If I took every job I ever had going back to high school, including internships (which totals 13 places where I’ve reported for work), and added together all the things I was responsible for, I could list three things I was responsible for. The point is the president oversees a lot. That person gets a lot of credit, but also catches a lot of grief.

I guess the accommodations aren’t bad and the parties are probably pretty nice. Still. If the guy I voted for wins, I don’t know if I should feel happy for him or send my condolences.

A Scientist Dictates His Findings of a Squirrel That Is Possibly Carrying the Plague

From the CNN Wire Staff on CNN.com (Oct. 9, 2012) - Authorities in Riverside County, California, said Tuesday that a ground squirrel has tested positive for exposure to fleas infected with the bacteria that can cause plague.

A Scientist Dictates His Findings of a Squirrel That Is Possibly Carrying the Plague

Click. “Ok, the date is October 15, 2012. The time – 2:04 p.m. Eastern Standard. Today’s study will investigate the likelihood that a North American mammal of the order rodentia has been exposed to the bacteria Yersinia pestis. The subject is a ground squirrel infested with Ctenocephalides felis, also known as fleas, thought to be carrying said bacteria.

“My early hypothesis is that, unlike what was historically found in rats, this squirrel is not carrying the strain of Yersinia pestis that leads to the disease known as the plague. The first factor leading me to form this hypothesis is the rarity of that particular bacterium today. It has not been a widespread threat to any population for over 100 years. The second basis for my hypothesis comes from the fact that the squirrel is adorable. I realize this is not medically-sound evidence, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

“The squirrel has a furry coat, dapper ears and large, deep-set eyes. His paws are soft and capable of grasping not only large acorns, but also my thumb when I manipulate them to do so. I have named him ‘Wally’. Isn’t that right, Wally? Oh wes it is! Wes it is! Wub wub wub wub wub!

“Wally’s physical state is ‘deceased’, but his soul lives on in all of us. Today’s dissection will likely prove there is little to fear from Wally.

“The initial passover of Wally’s coat reveals legions around the stomach and groin, and red splotches covering his tail. A brief scan of the mouth turns up a number of newly-missing teeth and stained gums. The skin abrasions do indicate some sort of infection, but the dental damage is likely due to consuming items of trash or animal remains. I bet you got into all kinds of yummy little morsels didn’t you, fella? Who’s a good boy?

“Now for the internal review. The first incision indicates that Wally’s muscle fibers are strained and weak. His bones appear brittle. His blood smells particularly of barium and appears green in color. The blood findings are somewhat disconcerting, but the weakened skeleton is not uncommon in mammals of similar size and age.

“While certain to be unrelated, it should be noted that my eyes have started to itch and I am having trouble breathing. I remain unconcerned, though, as I am following the proper procedure of wearing protective goggles and a mask. I’m sure the irritation is due to my sinuses, which are always a nightmare this time of year. I bet you didn’t have to worry about silly little sinuses, did you Walrus? Nooooooo.

“Continuing with the autopsy, it appears that most of the subject’s organs have turned black. This is a tad worrisome, but can certainly be caused by other factors. Rodents are known to regularly suffer from kidney disease, they are susceptible to liver failure thanks to their poor diet, and their lungs are naturally grey. Typically light grey, whereas Wally’s are more of a midnight, but still.

“A quick glance at my forearms reveals a previously-unseen rash and numerous boils, but I’m sure that’s what I get for scrubbing my hands with that generic, so-called ‘anti-bacterial’ soap that Carol bought. She never gets the good stuff, does she Waldo? No matter how many times we tell her.

“A look at my hands will likely show similar findings, particularly since the burning is quite intense, but it’s safer to keep my gloves on until the examination is over.

“A gentle grazing with my scalpel unintentionally pierces the subject’s left lung. Like the bones, it is unusually weak. And like the other organs, both lungs are black in color. You must have picked up a nasty smoking habit, huh?”

The doctor chuckles at his joke and then violently coughs up a handful of phlegm.

“In addition, puss is escaping from the lung. I must admit that this is rather disturbing. Furthermore, the physical decay seems to be increasing at a rapid rate. The subject’s fur is falling out in clumps. However, I’m less inclined to think he is carrying the plague and more inclined to think the loss of hair is due to the fumes from my cologne. Again, bought by Carol. Always cheaping out, isn’t she Waldorf?

“Huh. Well, this is interesting. While doing nothing but recording my findings, poor Wally’s head popped off. Just detached from his body and rolled to the edge of the table.

“I’m going to pause here for a visit to the restroom.” Click.

Click. “I have revised my earlier inclination that the subject’s fur loss is due to my cologne. It seems that between now and when I emerged from the shower this morning, I too have lost a significant amount of body hair, including that which resided on my testicles. I don’t know what compelled me to mention this particular finding, other than to point out that it may prove beneficial to my social activities. I feel it is a welcome development, as opposed to one I should be concerned about.

“What is concerning is the amount of blood contained in my vomit and stool. And perhaps the fact that I produced vomit at all prompts a bit of an eyebrow raise. Better to be safe than sorry, so I’ll call my doctor when I wrap up here, but I’m sure it’s nothing.

“You think it’s nothing, don’t you Wally Wally Washington? Wes you do! Wes you do!”