My good friend, mentor and — yes — spiritual guide, Chris Locke rants on about something or other today at Kung Pao New World Order and Bananas dot Com. Friday afternoon I was moored in the parking lot outside the John F. Kennedy Library in Boston when it hit me that if I could get everyone in China to send me a nickel I would no longer have to worry about feathering our nest to avoid a bleak and impoverished senescence. Thinking like that, words greater than one syllable, money making schemes, fear of the future… naturally I was moved to call Chris, the one person I know who can always talk me down, no matter what they’ve laced the county kibble with today.
"I’m doomed," I said. "What would you prescribe?"
"Eleemosynary my dear Watson," he replied. "See if you can get them to hang a bag of high fructose Atavan solution and a second bag of normal saline spiked with a little of the Captain Morgan’s — salty dog we used to call it — strap on the nitrous mask and ride it out."
"I’ll do that," I said, plugged in the ear buds, cranked up the volume, and tried to dial 911 from the laptop.
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