Monday, July 09, 2007

Review: Sicko

I was under the ottoman when the phone rang. Shelly turned on the shower. "We're meeting him in the lobby at 7:00," she said. Tony put on his sandals -- they smelled like Tytan, the dog who eats potato chips, and the new Labrador who tilted his head when I hissed at him in the hallway this morning. I looked up the length of Tony's ridiculous elongated body and blinked at him. But he didn't shake the catnip container then pour a mound for me to roll in. They left. I wedged myself on cool marble between the toilet and the bottom of the bathroom sink box. A suicide truck bomber killed 23 Iraqi army recruits when he rammed into their vehicle while they were traveling on a road south of Baghdad, near the town of Haswa. At least 27 others were wounded. Two other blasts, nearly simultaneous car bombs, left at least eight people dead in Baghdad's Karrada district. A neighbor walked down the back stairs and his lamentable giant shoes woke me before he could break a window and steal my food.

Archibald Cox's ghostly hand reached up from the earth but Brit Hume said this was an illusion caused by misaligned camera optics. Brit Hume said: "These 'sightings' and 'feelings' have been reported over the years and continue right up to this day even though the investigation of Scooter Libby produced no crime, Shimmy. We are in the midst of a not-very-serious case." I looked for mint dental floss string in the bathroom garbage can. Fatigue sometimes masks itself as hope. Time ghosts the world. Joe Lieberman punishes us because we don't love him enough. Water did not come out of the bathtub spigot but a water bug climbed the porcelain and I threatened to eat him unless he called me Monica Goodling. Their keys rattled in the front door. I ate the bug anyway. "I feel like I want to walk right into traffic," Tony said. I smelled Margaritas, french fries, tortilla chips, salsa, avocados, and garlic. No, it was guacamole.

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