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10:15 AM (35 minutes ago)

to me

Maybe you heard trough the vine already that one of the hosts of "chapo traphouse", the daddy's money communists raking it in on patreon, sufferend a heart attack. Matt Christmas got struck down days before the scheduled birth of his first child now hes the one wearing diapers and having tubes up his nose. So you busted old hobo with your busted limbs and busted eye could very likely survive a rich communist because he couldn't stop doing coke.

And you know what really funny is? How the left treats this issue. The right wing mostly does not care at all, because they don't care for the Show. But the left does and so they just lay it out there how hes a degenerate drug addict and he shouldn't have mocked Rush Limbough's death and so on. These people. You can give them everything, you can make them rich, and they still fuck it up. Communists are just born failures doing cryptic suicide and you, doing fights all the time, are healthier than them.

Thank you, young man.

I'm crutching on and off of trains.

My current goal is to walk with a cane by January.

I will avoid coke and other cool drugs—Madam Rum might glower jealous and strike me down by night if I embraced a rival medicine.

Thanks a million to the Brickmouse and his beautiful Bride for nursing me back to health, pouring the whiskey when my hand shook to much to fill the glass. I was only able to pour shots 5 thru 9, 1-4 and 10-12, beyond the ability of the gimp hand to dispense.

The kindness of Baruch, Mister Saffronno, Sean Glass, Michael T. Generous, The Operator, Nero the Pict, Mescaline Franklin, Brett, the Man in the Hat, Megan, Georgia, Incognegro, Uber Joe, Erique, Rick, Punky, Mari Biscotti, Jason the Esoteric, and the drivers for Freedom Car, Doctor Dread, Cutie Homesteader, Broke Tom, Doctor Park, the Croation stud who walked me to the mri tube, the rugby babe with stupendous thighs who jammed me into another magnetic tube, the catscan tech with the nice rack,Simeon who taught me traction postures, the Nigerian x-ray techs who forced my legs into a frog pose and held me down and gave me an 'ataboy' for not puking, that hot Urologist who squatted in her scrubs to exam me as i grinned to the black babe tech watching from the doorway, Lori the therapist who cried, and apologized, "Sorry, we just don't handle people that are this badly injured," the brassy Dominican surgeon who brutally examined my groin as the men watching grimaced and winced, the cute African E.R. doc who declared in jocular fashion, "Ahah, your spine is deteriorating! I wrote you a work release, but I see you work for yourself—so be kind and rest!" and the damned rabbit who declined to get out of my way as i crawled down the alley after passing out on the way to the bus stop, who as he nibbled on concrete crack raspberry leaves, declared me an unworthy predator, thanks to all of them, and the 7 men who tried to mug me on crutches and the few dozen kind souls who assisted an emaciated yeti on his pathetic way, for reminding me that there are still friends and foes to be had before the world dines on my demise and the the overworld feasts upon this weary soul...

And most of all Lynn Lockhart, who arranged for all of my care from 3,000 miles away.