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So That’s what Happened to Omnibot

I’m clawing my way back to health, one molecule at a time, with a bit of help from the four prescriptions I got from the clinic on Saturday after weeks of suffering alone. That’s the last time I try to self-medicate bronchitis, although I could have sworn I read that the best cure is the twelve bottles of organic chardonnay that is in your basement. Or pie. Pie cures more than those dreaded visible abs.

When I went to that retail fiesta called Rite Aid to pick up my medicine, I saw something funny ha ha. In Baltimore, we have this phenomenon of police substations, where patrolmen have arranged to use the resources of a nearby business if necessary. While waiting in line, I saw some polices had a guy sitting in a chair by the door with his hands cuffed behind his back, interrogating him. This is hardly an unusual sight in this city, but the fun part was watching them book the perp on top of the makeup brush counter, next to the display of that fake hair that women weave into their regular hair when they get dressed up for weddings. I was going to say that it’s not often you see guns next to fake hair, but upon review, I postulate a theory that there is a strong correlation of guns and fake hair in the wider world.

Speaking of the wider world, my friend Faustus came to town for about sixteen consecutive hours this week. I took him for breakfast at the Paper Moon Diner, a place where toys and mannequins from the nineteen seventies go to die. I ate an omelet with thousands of menacing plastic carcasses looming over me. I hate the Paper Moon because they have a whole page full of rules for eating there. The Paper Moon thinks its so great, when it is merely slightly better than satisfactory.

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Sometimes, You Feel Like a Squink. Sometimes, You Don’t. My Lungs Got Squink. Yours Don’t.

The three squids are named Bronk, Eye, and Tuss. They are the Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos of the marine cephalopod set. Luckily, my favorite relative, Auntie Bee Otics, is coming to stay with me for the next five days. She eats squids like that for supper . . . and they’ve been fried to perfection in my ravaged lungs.

Calamari, anyone?

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Squinkier than Thou

Is there any flower as ugly as the daffodil? I don’t think so. If you were here, and if you defended the homely daffodil, I would hem and haw and allow as to how I am perhaps confusing that noble flower with some other daffodil-colored marvel of nature. But between you and me and the bedpost, I really mean the daffodil.

You’ll have to forgive my haste. I am still possessed by the three squids, although the squid of orange-juice tummy is looking suspiciously like chocolate-pudding-and-mashed-potato tummy these days. They are engrossed in “Star Trek: The Next Generation” right now, so I can talk a little bit. How are you? I am fine except for the whole squid thing. I made a mental list of all my problems last week so I could begin to address them before I die. It was a bit of a kick in the pants to realize how many of my problems are really other people’s problems in disguise. Tricksy problems. But there’s nothing that can’t be solved without perseverance and the proper amount of mental telepathy.

For example, what if I changed Goblin’s name to Lydia Bumpersticker, Cabbage Patch Doll

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Squink

Just in time for spring, there is a squid made out of snot prowling my sinuses. As I have drunk two gallons of orange juice over the past two days, there is a squid made out of fat wrapped around my midsection. A squid made out of people who are driving me up a wall has interfaced with my limbic system.

The question remains: What if I changed Goblin’s name to Butterbucket Bunnybutton, Priestess of Funk?