So this morning on the radio I hear some weather forecaster say it's going to be a beautiful fall day here in.... Well, never mind exactly what city. You're not catching me THAT easy! Suffice it to say that today was supposed to be a sparkling late autumn day with temperatures a cool 35 degrees (That's 95 Fahrenheit for you math-challenged Americans, and 308.16 Kelvin for you science geeks).



Ah, yes.... Nothing like a crisp December day in Baghdad.... Er, I mean Fallujah.... Or it could be Mosul.... Or maybe I meant Tikrit.



At any rate, I decided this would be a good day to detail my '73 Chevy Vega. I spent hours washing it, then drying it, and then buffing it to an unbelievable shine with Camel Wax. I even scrubbed the Shiite roadkill residue off the tires. Then I vacuumed the interior and tossed out all the used condoms from under the seats, and coated the dashboard with Armor All. By the time I finished, I was thoroughly exhausted, but the car looked absolutely pristine! I was quite proud of myself.



So then what happens? A damn sandstorm comes up out of f*cking nowhere!!! It never f*cking fails!!!



Needless to say, I tracked down that stupid weatherman from this morning and tortured him. Then I took a break for dinner and to let you, my loyal followers, know what was happening.



Anyway, gotta go. He's regaining consciousness, so I'm going to go reattach the electrodes.



Ciao!