So I spent my weekend holed up at home, sick as a mangy dog.
On Saturday morning I spent my time at a Rock TV shoot, coughing my way through yet another set of dramatically weird performances by Leroy and Ted that all of you will get to see in about a month. By the time I got home at 3, my coughs had taken on the tone and timbre of a Southern matriarch’s death scene from a Lifetime movie. My chest burned and my back muscles ached from the wheezing contractions. My head throbbed and my throat pulsated with sadness. In short, my mood was about as pleasant as Hitler’s underground bunker in April, 1945.
On Sunday I stayed in bed, dozing in and out of sleep until 1, on orders from my lovingly belligerent wife, who also forbade me to leave the house, engage in physical exercise, or practice long division. My misery was made complete when Bridgette left to go to work at 6, leaving me alone. I spent my evening breathing through my mouth, coughing fitfully, and watching Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, which was much darker than I remembered. However, I found that all the human sacrifices, blood drinking, and devil-worship matched my state rather appropriately.
That Mola Ram was a striking guy, wasn’t he? Too bad about the mauled-by-alligators thing.
At this point, some of you may be wondering what my point is. Well, my friends, as usual I have no point. This is just a bunch of stuff I’m writing down for no good reason.
If the JLP required an official slogan, that last sentence would probably be it.