If It's Brown...

All right, screw it. I've tried for two days to write about Johnny being in the hospital, but the fact is nothing funny happened. I would just like to state for the record, though: I said I'd drive him. 

At 2:00 on Tuesday morning, when I got up to have a pee and Johnny said “I t’ink ye have to call an ambulance. I t'ink maybe me appendix burst,” I did not – as some would have it – tell him to fuck off and go back to sleep. I did not. What I did do is think really quickly (or as quickly as I could, with sleepy pee-brain) that our Massachusetts-mandated, poor-people insurance probably doesn’t pay for the ambulance ride if it turns out to not be an emergency. Even sleepy pee-brains know an ambulance can cost upwards of a thousand dollars, and we haven’t got a pot these days to piss in as it is. So I wanted to be reasonably certain Johnny was actually facing death before I called. He was. I didn't. He survived. The end.

Christ, it’s just raining goddamn current-events clichés around here these days, isn’t it? First I'm refinancing my sub-prime mortgage to avoid foreclosure, then weighing my husband’s life against my health care plan. What’s next? An unexpected Senate race in my backyard that somehow goes all flop-bottom and flushes the future health and well-being of our state, our country and possibly several far-flung corners of the world into the crapper?

Oh, wait.

Yeah. 

So...

C'mon, folks! This sand is nice and warm! And soft and quiet! Let's all bury our heads in it for a while!