Did ya ever wake up in the mornin' and know right from the first "snooze" that ya weren't gonna make it
that day?  And nine minutes later, reconfirm your suspicions.  And nine minutes later, destroy your clock?

Most Sundays I have to set my alarm so that I'll have time to bleat this little letter out before the race.  But THIS mornin', I awokened up with pity-inspiring symptoms of the most monstrous allergy/cold combo a human has ever endured.  My head hurts.  My ear hurts.  My eyes hurt.  My hand hurts. (...from smashin' the clock.)  My nose hurts.  My throat's so sore, it hurts to breathe.  And I think my vulva is swollen.....Pardon me, my
uvula is swollen.

So, while I could be tellin' you about my cool, NASCAR ride-along dream....Or waxing chauvinistic over this "woman driver" that tried to qualify for this race. (Here's to you, Mrs. Robinson.)....Or spreadin' rumors about Tony double-dippin' at Indy.....Or argumentin' some more with Andrea about last week's race....Or singin' Happy Birthday to that big 'cage-rattler' in the sky.....Instead, I'm gonna have to call in.  I'm a basket case.  I can count the hours of sleep I got on one hand...with mittens....thumbless mittens.  I'm callin' upon the last BTU in my body, just to plink out these few words.  Right now, I need a pillow, and 3 bottles of Nyquil.

I'm takin' a sick day.  So, if you'll excuse me, I'll be gettin' back to my deathbed.......And my dream.  Where was I?  Oh yeah.  I was a rich little twerp.  And against NASA-CAR's wishes, I had just paid millions to ride shotgun in a race.....With my luck, I'll catch the flu.

NAPA Auto Parts 500
As I Lay Whining...
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