Vomitola down!

Get Out the Vomitola

Your breathless correspondent has thrown out her back. Do not ask how. The answer is undignified for both of us.

I believe this officially entitles me to some ObamaCare! Which means, what, exactly? I’ve heard the term, and I haven’t bothered to figure out what the dilly is. One hears things, and one nods along, and then one is like…what…? Just today, a child asked me to explain what a Three-6 is. A member of Three 6 Mafia? Something to do with pimps? Don’t ask me, I just have a car radio, which is never getting turned on again. I thought I was doing so well with covering 808 and several urbane and even witty possibilities for the identity of a G-6, and then she tries to stump me with Three-6.

So, in short, ObamaCare means we can’t have nice things, but we’re damn well going to try, and I am going to take a leftover prescription pill that is only close to expiring but not actually expired. Or some truly expired yet still piquant sizzurp. Cripes. This really hurts! Typing makes it worse. Each right-handed letter an agony. You love it.

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