Cut-and-paste my face over
Mary Decker's (and kick the breast size up a notch or two), then put Zola Budd in a portable latrine maintenance truck, and you'll have a pretty good idea how my right foot came to look like an eggplant last week.
For my part, I'm convinced that the Instapundit (no, I'm
not going to link to him) is at the bottom of this "accident." We haven't spoken since I left the flaming bag o' poo on his website. Not that he soiled his feet stamping it out, mind you — he just let it sit there and ripen for weeks, as it was functionally indistinguishable from so many of his own posts.
In other news, it looks like my house-sitting gig for
H. Paul Bremer has run its course. This is a bummer indeed, as the boys from Halliburton had just finished recaulking the hot tub, and I was looking forward to my planned weekend blowout with the cast of
The Swan. It was gonna be
the Fourth of July party, I tell you: open bar, Atkins-friendly buffet, Bobo circulating the patio with alfalfa satays. Now it's all shot to hell, and I have to get the sofa reupholstered and sound stage taken down before The Viceroy (as we used to call him in our fraternity days) gets back. Same old story: the neighbors file their noise complaints, the cops call his voice mail, and he flies home two days early to confront me about it.
But that's Paulie for you. He's been like this ever since we were in school together — forever sweating the small stuff. And boy, was he making a nuisance of himself these past few weeks: calling me from CPA HQ to find out if I was home to receive his Amazon.com deliveries, sending all those constant nagging emails about getting back in touch with the contractor about the chipped bathroom tile. I hate to say it, but if
certain people would just mellow out a little, I wouldn't have to fund Shi'ite insurgencies half a world away just to get a little
me time.
