Son of a...

What's left of my back still hurts with the constant prodding of Satan's pitchfork. And what's left of my charcoal soul is a little smoldering heap of hate for the old lady I unfortunately t-boned in Atlanta. Just for fun, let's say I actually fall asleep at night; when I wake up, I feel exactly like a big burlap bag of broken dishes. That can't be good, can it? Oh well. Look at me, I'm wretched. One more trip to the chiropractor and after that, I'm bidding on that Bionic Back 2000 on eBay and also see if I can scrounge some serious narcotics.

That's all I got today. Pathetic, huh? Yes, it certainly is what we call a "serious mo'fo." So Jacquie, if yer a'readin' this, I'll call ya as soon as I kin, an' I'll talk atcha like a redneck. Shoot fire an' save matches, I done called yew once; yalls ain't got no answerin' machine er what? No really, I'll call back, and promise not to talk like a redneck because it's truly more unbecoming than and as boring as talking about a crushed spinal column.

So since I got nothin' today, and since he's mucho grande talented, please visit my favorite drawer I've never met named Kyle for your daily dose of dootles. By the way, if you'd like to be his guest drawer, submit him a dootle by this Sunday.


If I'm not better in a few days, I will pay someone to hit me in the head with a shovel. Check back for your chance. Hell, I'll even let you hit me for free.