Yo, Jethro! Shelly Blaisdell

LwjEU0zOOPSiA2xzI0-Ljnb0PFCxhcAoDwPIr0Tl2Qj2hiKqozF2YMhZIATp1vEasmh2Cz2ExDMs_K_9LUvhBYh1mSA3AXFL9J-RoX2p2nSBrsSGAqBHUgVnd8BlYXA-QpHQ6tOSba8bE61Uf4lNDGBp6ROHlp4TajdBeySeY1gLy14J0MyBA01ayxjv6y5fvBKlF6UyjmFYVrlG2odGJGentle Readers,

Do you see this face? Does this look like the face of a happy cat? No. It does not. It looks like a cat about to go postal. I was in the middle of writing this week’s column when my health insurance provider decided to add hijacking my life to the list of services it provides for $37,000 per month.

I like to think that I work for you, my readers. For the next several hours, apparently I work for the insurance company, for free, so they can continue to charge me money for services I cant afford to use. If you see me with in the next two days, with this look on my face, do not approach me. I have entered that state that many animals do in times of stress. If you touch me I might explode into a ball of fur and claws and gouge your eyeballs out. I might flatten myself into a furry black puddle of cat and say your name in demonic tones. I may simply vomit.

My only hope is that I get to do all of these things to someone at my insurance office.

I leave you now, to drive to the actual insurance office because the phone is only answered by machines programed to make us go insane. I may be gone for days . . . I take with me a phone, a ukulele and a gun.


The Actors' Gang

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