Well, tomorrow morning we are packing up the babies and leaving for the week to celebrate the Thanksgiving holiday with friends and family up in Le Fresberg. Because of my new medication — which has to be kept refrigerated — traveling shall be a whole new odyssey in ice chest hell. We shall see how it goes.

However, on the bright side, I was able to stick myself in the belly last night. Can I tell you just how NO-talent it is to stick your own flesh with a spike of sharp metal and then inject yourself with red, hot liquid magma, to boot? In between my belly sobs of sheer horror, the cerebral side of me was thinking like an anthropologist; as animals, as creatures, it goes against everything in our genetic code to allow ourselves to be stabbed. I mean, in the wilds of the forest primeval, when our prehistoric ancestors stumbled upon a huge thorn or a wooden spike or spear or a even some nasty sabre-toothed bastard, our reptilian brains told us to get our fatasses the hell away — not to walk directly into the jagged clutches of danger.

So, all these millennia later, here I am, expected not only to allow myself to be impaled…BUT BEING FORCED TO DO IT TO MYSELF. It is just so unnatural, I cannot even tell you. But, I have no choice — it’s either this, or fever, pain, irreversible joint and organ damage, and a future spent savagely gathering rosebuds while I may on a bleedin’ Rascal. So, I closed my eyes, thought of England, and did it…and will continue to do it, gottddamnit.

Sometimes I am so BUTCH that it astonishes even me.

And by the way, if I ever do have to use a Rascal to saunter the boulevards and backalleys of Los Angeles, if you think for one second that I won’t bedazzle the chassis, install chrome spinners on that sonofabitch, and run a Jolly Roger up the back on a flagpole, you are sadly mistaken, my friends.

My rig would be bodacious.