I'm With Stupid in Fill in the Place Here

Every time I leave home for a few deserved days of not letting the rats win, I seem to forget to pack all my stupid saying silk-screened T-shirts. How about you?

I have a ritual: Check tickets at least twice, ensure that the light timers are plugged in and set to P.M. this time, toss distracting handfuls of kibble at the cats and smash all the "I got loaded in..." shot glasses on the floor.

Strangely enough, where ever I go I always manage to make sure that cheap cotton lays upon my back, an asinine bon mot I could not conceive on a bender graces my front and my highballs will be born in a crucible of "I got hammered in..."

Fill in your favorite destination.

That would be o.k. It's all part of the modern paradigm that includes "carry on" luggage the size of a Cadillac, layovers you have birthdays on and flights where I'd just as soon hold a flask of gin and vermouth and I'll get back to you about the olives once we're out of this kidney-wrenching turbulence.

But travel broadens the mind just as it tightens the sphincter to a point of being able to snap a wooden dowel if we suddenly drop another five hundred feet in a split second. Fortunately I'm back and safe and sound. All set to fly "Air Chair" for a few thousand miles and some postings about the latest effort to self-age ten years on a red-eye.

Bunny on.