Permit me a bit of introspection.
I try to be mindful of the Law of Occum’s Razor when I do the introspective thing, and Occum’s Razor would lead to the following conclusions:
1. My cruller is fogged by some sort of a micro organism that has rendered me a stumbling, unable-to-concentrate snot factory.
2. Whatever energy I may have had at the beginning of the day is now completely sapped, as evidenced by my seemingly Bataan Death March-like stumble between my office and the Big, Fat, Black Capitalistic Car at the end of the work day.
3. The Booger Fairies that have rendered me a pathetic snot-filled dewemplin have prevented me from having any ground pound time, which is the time when I have almost always formulated readworthy posts.
Then again (and much more ominous) is the possibility that I have completely and forever lost whatever I once had resembling a fastball. All I know is that, at the moment, blogging just doesn’t seem like much fun.
All is not lost, for I am healthy enough to recognize that Harry Reid is a contemptible swine (I always knew that), but I have recently been reminded that he is also as dumb as a bag of potting soil.