The results of the MRI scan on my brain are in. Connie and I met with a neurologist yesterday and he and a panel of three other doctors have concluded that I have a severe case of Sick-Cell Overload or Humorrhoiditis. The disease effects the Bouche de Toilette, or Potty Mouth Quadrant, of the brain. There is no known cure.
This may come as no surprise to most of you, especially Cousin Jerry who has been telling people for years that I’m certifiable. I never knew what that meant, but naturally assumed it was something akin to a registered letter from the post office.
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“Russell, why do we have to get here so early? It’s an hour before sunrise. You know I need my beauty rest.”
“I can’t argue with that, Perry. But I’m afraid it would take more than a Rip Van Winkle nap to improve your looks. We have to get here early before all the best jokes are taken. Now, let me help you into the dumpster.”
“Why do I have to get in the dumpster?”
“Because you’re the crazy comic and I’m the handsome straight man. And don’t waste time looking for self-deprecating humor. I’ll take care of that for you.”
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This is the blog of a woman who is seriously on the edge and I mean right ON the edge…no, not there… just a little bit further… further than that…no, further still…just a tiny bit more… just move slightly to the right a little…no, that’s too much…just move a tad to the left…that’s right, just there…now you’ve moved too far to the left… Damn, what part of the ‘on the edge’ do you not understand? Oh, and her matricidal boy genius, come devil spawn.
Or the three people I guilted into reading this blog, whatever.
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