The mountains of Cuba bitch-slapped Ernesto, which was always a pussy name for a hurricane anyway, weakening it so much so that it was nothing more than a rain shower when it got to my neckbone. Instead of taking the day off wih every other faggot who gets spooked when the west coast of Africa spits one out of its ass, Nemo and I went to work. We got wet. I get bigger storms in my morning coffee.
Better work today then ruin the three-day tour of my eyelids I got planned for this coming holiday weekend. Pa Dukes always used to lambaste me for sleeping late, saying, among other things, that you cannot make up sleep. I've always said he was wrong. After the three months I've had going back and forth to NYC and working every other day in between, I'm about to prove the ol' foagie wrong.