Revolt

I opened the fridge and noticed that the leftovers had formed an off-Broadway version of "Annie Get Your Gun." The rotting chicken was playing Buffalo Bill. I think Tom Wopat might have been in there somewhere. It was a good indication that I have been paying far too little attention to the homestead.

I struck the stage in the crisper, thus cleaning everything out. There is now some bread, some condiments, and Tom Wopat left. You never really plan on cleaning out your fridge. It just happens.

Within about an hour, I was feeling a bit like ass. The nose started dripping. The head started filling up. A sneeze or two on the half hour. Runny eyes. I think Luke Duke poisoned me.

Sometimes your body just reaches out, taps you on the shoulder, and says, "Hey, Chico. Slow it down a little."

I've been running at full speed recently and there is no end of the fun in sight. As one of my new-found bands (Yonder Mountain Sting Band) likes to proclaim, "There's still ramblin' in the rambler, let'em go!"

Now, I just want to crawl into bed. But, in a moment of great and sick paranoia, I believe my bed sheets are conspiring with the poison fridge. I sense small dust particles in the duvet cover. They're clogging my sinuses. I would collapse on the couch but I think the dust is there as well. I may check into a hotel until I am well enough to clean.

In the meantime, I hear the cast of "Annie Get Your Gun" will soon be putting on a production of "Cabaret."

I can't wait to see who the package of frozen hotdogs plays.