vituperation

October 29, 2003

This morning, I was sitting in my office when the phone rang. As is my custom, I picked up the caller ID box to see who it was. I don’t know why I do this, because I always answer the phone even if it’s someone I don’t want to talk to. I guess it’s just wanting to know, or something.

Across the top of the caller ID box screen were the words “Guardian Angel,” and the line beneath showed the phone number.

Cool, I thought, most people have to use new-age mystical crap mumbo-jumbo techniques to talk to their guardian angel. Mine calls me on the phone. It’s good to be the king.

I picked up the receiver.

“This is Fred,” I said brightly, hoping to wow my guardian angel with my warm personality.

“Ummmm, I’m sorry, I must have the wrong number!”

Her voice was harried, and she sounded surprised to hear me.

“That’s okay,” I replied.

She hung up, leaving me staring at the caller ID box. Oh, well.

I should’ve known my guardian angel wouldn’t be in Idaho, anyway.

Speaking of it being good to be the king, did you know that Elvis made FORTY MILLION DOLLARS last year? That’s up from thirty-seven million the previous year, for the record.

Imagine, if you will, that you’ve done something that makes you sort of unique. Imagine you wrote some software, special software to protect billions and billions of dollars every year with nifty cryptography. Imagine that what you wrote was the first — and is still the only — software that does what yours does.

Imagine that there are only two people on the entire planet who understand how this software internally works, and that you’re one of those two people.

Imagine further that the powers that be like your software so much they decided to use it to protect billions of new dollars designed to help out an entire country. Now imagine those same powers have contacted you and the other person on the planet who understands this software to inquire as to whether or not one of you can be able to come on site and help install it and get it running.

In Baghdad.

Do you have any idea how far something like that’ll suck your balls right up into your body?

Speaking of ball-sucking, you know what sucks balls? Trying to find a dermatologist who’ll see you before March 2004.

Good God.

And they don’t even budge when you tell them your face might fall off by then.

Fortunately, I found one — after, seriously, having called every other one in town — who has a nurse practitioner who can see me tomorrow. She could’ve seen me today, but the only open time was when I have lunch, and since I like to maintain certain routines (definitely like my routines)I made the appointment for tomorrow.

I’m all about seeing a nurse practitioner if it’ll get me in faster. I ain’t shy. I figure if there’s something she’s not sure about, she’ll ask the doctor anyway. Now I get to find out if my self-diagnosis on what’s wrong with me is right or not.

Right now, here’s what our cats are doing:

Tubby suspiciously eyes the toy mouse in the hamper.

Miz Poo disgustedly walks away from Stanley,
who was coming after her. The glowing green speck
in the upper left is Spot’s eye, as he keeps an eye on them
from a safe distance.

Stanley forgets it isn’t quite Halloween yet.

Spot looks guilty, probably because he was spying.

Spanky is warily watching Stanley, who raced up the stairs
in front of me to try and get in the picture.