It’s 110 degrees outside right now. You’d think I’d be used to it, as my quasi-indigenous upbringing would allow me to move past an attitudinal Jurassic age and just let Lethargus Rex go extinct.
But I don’t. I’m laying about like some demotivated manatee.
I started to follow-up on my previously-alluded-to “reader’s block” affliction, but I demurred.
I stated to write about two 90-plus years-old men that managed to show up to Omaha Beach on June 6 in the most unlikely of ways, and then draw a scathing comparison of them to the beta-male, brace-wearing, I-just-sustained-an-OJI-from-trying-to-jump-on-the-gravy-train redshirt consortium in which I find myself these days.
But I twisted a hoof when the gate dropped.
Then it hit me. I’ve already sat around for hours, noodling Adobe After Effects, and in reality, crafting a veritable celluloid metaphor for this entire, appallingly anemic post:
And we’ll leave it at that.