I knew it would turn out badly when I was awakened by a Cher song

Today sucks. Everything that can go wrong, has. I’ve been attacked by wolves on my morning walk, I went to give blood and they decided that I should give metablood, so I was hooked up to something that turned my precious bodily fluids flowing out of my arm into this lifeless transparent stream flowing back into my arm with this chugga-chugga-chugga machine blasting away behind me for over an hour (my veins are smaller than predicted, and apparently this is my fault, as if I decided which ones to wear in the morning and deliberately tied on the tiny ones), and then when I sat down at the bleeders’ bar to replenish my supply of liquids the orange juice bottle exploded all over me, plus I now have JV’s name as the multiple high-scorer on my Wurdle game—curse his stubby little fingers!—and when I took my tweed jacket out of the plastic this morning I discovered that the dry cleaner had shrunk it about five sizes so I looked like Stan Laurel, and I wouldn’t be surprised if somewhere during the day they elected Sarah Palin and I’m going to be the last one to find out about it. It. Has. Been. That. Kind. Of. Day.

You’ll notice I mentioned nothing about Regis Saturday. All I want to know from Catholic Charlie is, where’s my medal? Legion d’honneur? Cordon bleu? MHL finalist? Frontierland Deputy Sheriff? We finished 4 rounds at 6 o’clock as promised, despite a series of perfect storms that made my morning today look like winning the lottery. Before this coming weekend at Monticello I’m picking up a padlock at the hardware store. In the future, all tabrooms with me in them will have this padlock on the door. Deal with it.

On the other hand, I did get to perform in “My Dinner with O’C” Saturday night: the action figures are available on line at the Big Jake website. In other words, we finally hit the Brazilian Emporium where Mr. “If There Isn’t A Trophy For That We’ll Make One” and I tore into a few hundred pounds of feijoada and all the trimmings as we gossiped about everyone and everything. He told me some things that I swore I would never tell anyone! (I’ll write them all up some time tonight and post them for you tomorrow.) The point of this was, of course, that he would move the Jake RR dinner from Planet Hollywood to someplace that had food for the likes of me. I think I was successful. Worst case scenario: it’s not far from PH, so while everyone else is having that pale imitation of a hamburger (much like that pale imitation of blood now coursing through my body), I can pop over for a little hearts of palm and all those unidentified body parts boiled in black beans. All right!

I could use some of that iron-rich meat this very second.