Wild Card Wednesday

The miles slipped past yesterday while I listened to a Stephen Coonts audiobook. When that one ended, I switched to a Patrick O'Brien tale. Ain't life grand? I tried sleeping in the king bed here in my run-down hotel room, but every time I got comfortable I'd have a coughing jag. In the end I spent the night semi-sleeping in a sitting position on the couch with a pillow wedged behind my neck. Good thing I opted to pay the extra ten bucks for a room with a sofa. It did not help matters that the Hot Dog Dance song from the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse was running in an endless loop in my head. My granddaughter loves that show. It is like audio/visual crack for babies

I read where some religious group has calculated the world will end today. Will it be before or after the Cubs game? I think they forgot to carry a one or something. I suspect, if the End Times arrive in my lifetime, Armegeddon will launch either right after (or right before, either would be poignant enough) the Cubs play game seven in a World Series. Since, given my luck, I will keel over from some malady in the eighth inning of that game I won't be around to see either a Cubs championship or the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword.

The Mighty Missouri is rolling by right underneath my window. The far bank is lined with trees and you can almost imagine you are on a boat with Lewis or Clark or even Debbie Reynolds back when she was showing us how the west was won.

I'm off to earn some money for the company. Hot Dog.