bugs

There's a bug in the blogosphere today. My blog has the dry heaves and double vision. And, like a bad child, it feverishly threw me out of its room. After 30 minutes of wheedling, cajoling, begging, then outright threatening, it still would not OPEN THIS DAMN DOOR RIGHT THIS MINUTE (no, I am not yelling, you little twit). So I called Google and tattled on it. I was told, no problem lady; just change your password.

You people have got to be kidding! I can't remember my own full name half the time, and you want me to CHANGE MY PASSWORD?!?!? Not to mention, I have a cast on clear up to my right armpit and have to type with my left index finger!!! Don't you understand that my left hand is connected to my right brain, where pretty pictures are stacked to the attic but there are NO English words, only Czechoslovakian ones, words that are all spelled with only c's and z's and v's??! Oh sure, I can make up a new password, but I couldn't remember it any more than you, in spite of all of your almighty gigabytes of Googleness, could.  

Would you say this to me even if you knew I'm an invalid??? Ha! I just bet you would, you behemoth breeder of bugs! Well, as that patron saint of everyman, Johnny Carson, would say...

"Cut off your Slauson!"

four a.m.

Four a.m. is the Armpit of Time. It's the hour no one wants to ever see. It predates when most early-risers go vertical, and even the nocturnals have burrowed in by then, quick! before daylight nails their coffins shut. However, others do seem to like it, like hunters and fishermen. I suspect they prefer the cover of darkness for the killing. A few other people are awake, praying for the souls of the dying deer and the gasping trout.

Here is some other stuff which happens at four o'clock:
I am awake and I can't get up. After all, what if I can get back to sleep? Hey, it could happen. It won't, but it could. Meanwhile, the neighbor's dog is hollering, "HEY, I'M UP!", as he waters the bushes. If I didn't know and love the cur, I'd be beyond pissed. Speaking of dogs, my dog might, having scarfed his weight in plums fallen from the tree, be in the bathroom exploding with diarrhea. Knowing toilets are only for drinking, he's no doubt using the carpet. I love dogs, but I must say that their timing for eliminating toxins sucks. Also, the fact that he made it to the bathroom would impress me much more if it weren't my bathroom.

Four is even too early to put on the coffee. As if that would help.