Whether 'Tis Nobler to Take the Shit or Sling it Right Back at Them On this day in 1987, Andy Warhol dies of complications after gallbladder surgery, though the details are hazy. The official cause was listed as cardiac arrhythmia, but speculation includes his fear of hospitals as well as possible Cefoxitin allergy. Warhol's death brings him a bonus 15 minutes of fame. Well, bless his heart, but I considered Warhol a hack. Really. A hack of gigantic masturbatory proportions. But he made money and everyone loved him. Ah well. Thank you to everyone who wished me well yesterday. I had quite a nice birthday, with the exception of the hours I spent at work, which were decidedly grim and pushed me to the point of being one �send� click away from quitting and possible getting arrested for assault and battery. The incident will henceforth be called The Great Backpack Debacle and has made my boss, aka Passive-Aggressive-Bitch-Boss, actually frightening in her methodology of non-management-ness. To sum up, the whole situation made me cry at work (a major no-no in the realm of the Valkyrie) and has now caused me adopt a procedure of doing nothing until I receive instructions in writing. And notarized. Hubster made it up, though, very well by taking me out to this place that had recently been a medium-end steak grill but had now been turned into a British-style pub and eatery, complete with Yorkshire pudding, bubble and squeak, and a lovely selection of single-malt scotch, in which I imbibed, along with a draft Newcastle � I love me some Newcastle Nut Brown Ale. It tastes chocolatey to me. Anyway, the Hubster and I stuffed our faces like there was no freakin� tomorrow. I think by the time we left, this was my eating tally: Jigger of scotch Hubster had curry instead, with no salad or bubble and squeak, but the curry had a large portion of mushrooms. Mushrooms? In curry? I don�t get it. And then the curry wasn�t hot enough to make the Hubster�s back break out in a sweat, so it wasn�t Hubster-worthy. Oh well. Then we had to walk around a PetsMart to move the digestive system about and I got to look at cats up for adoption. Hubster said that if I found one with 17 toes on one foot, only two legs, only one ear, and blind in one eye, I could take it home. Well, I wanted the old cranky 10-year-old Devon Rex but he said no. She only had a $40 adoption fee! She had blue eyes and a curly coat! He still said no. Poophead. I am so going to be the crazy cat woman in my cul-de-sac. But the Hubster gave me lovely gifts, like a boat license for our kayak, a strap-down system for carrying said kayak on Trixie�s back, two pairs of earrings (sparkly!), and seasons one and two of Samurai Jack! (jack jack jack) And I bought myself a nifty nifty circular knitting needle set and lots and lots of yarn so that I can make us each a knitted �Kenobi jacket� which is lovely lovely. But a lot of knitting. And the ILs sent me a check and I got a card from Bubba and the �rents tell me there�s a parcel coming my direction. Yippee! It�s my birthday, or it was, it was my birthday yesterday, neener neener neener!
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