No, I’m not as far gone as the guy I’m hanging out with here, I just have a horrible cold that’s turned my brain to mush. So I’m suspending publication — and payments — for a week or two until I get better.
And if enough of you clap very loudly and click the little ‘I love you so desperately that one day I might pay’ heart, I may, when I return to breathing through my nose, answer the following questions:
Is that a real skull in your hand and if so, did it belong to the head of a Big Five publishing house?
Is it possible that photo was taken at The New York City Morgue where it is rumored they once had a private museum with a head floating in a jar of formaldehyde and a secret room off the museum that you only got to see if you knew it was there and asked? Like the old days when they kept dirty magazines under the counter? Which was kind of related to what was in the secret room.
Was one of the forensic pathologists at the morgue so hot that after the story was filed, you had a thing with him? You know, the French guy who made you an omelet? Because I know you, Joyce, once they cook for you, it’s game on…
Best sick note ever. 👏👏👏
Our recipe for recovering from horrible colds (and also COVID when your doctor won't prescribe Paxlovid because it messes with your blood pressure medicine) is hot tea, lashings of local honey, reshly squeezed lemon juice, and bourbon. Feel better, and I already pay just on effing name recognition AlONE.