Sorry. On drugs at the moment.

This summer cold's a bitch. Hacking cough won out over crushing fatigue last night, so I drugged up on Tylenol #3 (left over from my strangulated hernia operation two years ago) and Benadryl and still stayed up until 2:00. Karen forgot to set the alarm (yup -- I can't program a VCR, either), so I overslept and had no time to go a-bloggin' this AM to check up on my e-friends. I feel like a heel. A heel with a cough. But you learn toughness from residency. (For those of you not in the medical biz, residency = five or six years of indentured servitude, after which you may call yourself a specialist. In my case, a snot doc.) I didn't pull all-nighters in the OR with Maisie Shindo (one of New York's best doctors -- go Maisie!) to wimp out over a stupid cold. Or, as we used to say at Big County, "You're either in the hospital working, or you're in the hospital as a patient. Either way, your butt better be here." And here I am. I drew a blank on a topic, unfortunately. Best I can do is reminisce about my earliest memories of the Web. In 1994, Karen and I rented a house in Alhambra, California. We had two of the nicest landlords -- a Jet Propulsion Laboratory rocket scientist (no kidding!) and his wife. That's when I first remember truly surfing the Web -- getting my ears wet, wiping out. My favorite website was Mirsky's Worst of the Web. Nowadays, if you google Mirsky, you'll find (through mirsky.com) a tee-shirt vendor. With a bit more stick-to-it-iveness, you'll find this site, where three latter day Mirskys pick their very Worst. However, this seems like a thin cover to sell stuff for something called outfitters.com. I miss the old Mirsky. The Worst I remember Most was Slut Boy, a skanky young dude who had posted photos of himself in all his slutty glory. You'd feel cleaner just looking at him. Alas, Slut Boy is gone, too, although perhaps he's still out there, lost in Net Space amongst all the other Slut Boys. But if you know what's good for you, you won't try googling for him. It's a mean hard-fisting organ-piercing jungle out there.

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Michelle writes: . . . how about a post for female writers on what guys really think/feel/do [during sex]? Great question, Michelle. So great I'm going to save my answer until a day when my comic super-powers are at their zenith. For now, let me end with this teaser of a reply: One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, one thousand four, one thousand five, one thousand six . . . D. PS: Give poor Bare Rump a visit. Lately, she's endured more than an extraterrestrial should have to bear, what with having to watch Martha Stewart and Keanu Reeves make out, then having to eat Martha and drive cross country with Keanu. And not even the real Keanu Reeves -- some cheap wannabe. And now, to add insult to injury, the poor dear's blog has only been getting three hits a day. Since one of those hits comes from me, that's pathetic. Bare Rump hates to be thought of as pathetic.